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THE  POET 

AT 

THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE 


|)c  talk*  toitb  &ia  f  cllotu 
anH  tljc  UcaUct 


BY" 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 


BOSTON   AND   NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY 

&fc  ftfoetftbe 

MDCCCC 


Copyright,  1872  and  1891, 
BY  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 

Copyright,  1900, 
BY  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 

Ail  rights  reserved. 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  H.  0.  Houghton  &  Co. 


PREFACE. 


IN  this,  the  third  series  of  Breakfast-Table  conver- 
sations, a  slight  dramatic  background  shows  off  a  few 
talkers  and  writers,  aided  by  certain  silent  supernu- 
meraries. The  machinery  is  much  like  that  of  the  two 
preceding  series.  Some  of  the  characters  must  seem 
like  old  acquaintances  to  those  who  have  read  the 
former  papers.  As  I  read  these  over  for  the  first 
time  for  a  number  of  years,  I  notice  one  character 
representing  a  class  of  beings  who  have  greatly  mul- 
tiplied during  the  interval  which  separates  the  earlier 
and  later  Breakfast-Table  papers,  —  I  mean  the  scien- 
tific specialists.  The  entomologist,  who  confines 
himself  rigidly  to  the  study  of  the  coleoptera,  is  in- 
tended to  typify  this  class.  The  subdivision  of  labor, 
which,  as  we  used  to  be  told,  required  fourteen  differ- 
ent workmen  to  make  a  single  pin,  has  reached  all 
branches  of  knowledge.  We  find  new  terms  in  all  the 
professions,  implying  that  special  provinces  have  been 
marked  off,  each  having  its  own  school  of  students. 
In  theology  we  have  many  curious  subdivisions; 
among  the  rest  eschatology,  that  is  to  say,  the  geogra- 
phy, geology,  etc.,  of  the  "undiscovered  country;" 
in  medicine,  if  the  surgeon  who  deals  with  dislocations 
of  the  right  shoulder  declines  to  meddle  with  a  dis- 
placement on  the  other  side,  we  are  not  surprised,  but 


Vi  PREFACE. 

ring  the  bell  of  the  practitioner  who  devotes  himself 
to  injuries  of  the  left  shoulder. 

On  the  other  hand,  we  have  had  or  have  the  ency- 
clopaedic intelligences  like  Cuvier,  Buckle,  and  more 
emphatically  Herbert  Spencer,  who  take  all  know- 
ledge, or  large  fields  of  it,  to  be  their  province.  The 
author  of  "Thoughts  on  the  Universe"  has  something 
in  common  with  these,  but  he  appears  also  to  have  a 
good  deal  about  him  of  what  we  call  the  humorist; 
that  is,  an  individual  with  a  somewhat  heterogeneous 
personality,  in  which  various  distinctly  human  ele- 
ments are  mixed  together,  so  as  to  form  a  kind  of 
coherent  and  sometimes  pleasing  whole,  which  is  to  a 
symmetrical  character  as  a  breccia  is  to  a  mosaic. 

As  for  the  Young  Astronomer,  his  rhythmical  dis- 
course may  be  taken  as  expressing  the  reaction  of 
what  some  would  call  "the  natural  man  "  against  the 
unnatural  beliefs  which  he  found  in  that  lower  world 
to  which  he  descended  by  day  from  his  midnight  home 
in  the  firmament. 

I  have  endeavored  to  give  fair  play  to  the  protest 
of  gentle  and  reverential  conservatism  in  the  letter  of 
the  Lady,  which  was  not  copied  from,  but  suggested 
by,  one  which  I  received  long  ago  from  a  lady  bear- 
ing an  honored  name,  and  which  I  read  thoughtfully 
and  with  profound  respect. 

December,  1882. 


PREFACE  TO  THE  NEW  EDITION. 


IT  is  now  nearly  twenty  years  since  this  book  was 
published.  Being  the  third  of  the  Breakfast-Table 
series,  it  could  hardly  be  expected  to  attract  so  much 
attention  as  the  earlier  volumes.  Still,  I  had  no  rea- 
son to  be  disappointed  with  its  reception.  It  took  its 
place  with  the  others,  and  was  in  some  points  a  clearer 
exposition  of  my  views  and  feelings  than  either  of  the 
other  books,  its  predecessors.  The  poems  "Homesick 
in  Heaven  "  and  the  longer  group  of  passages  coming 
from  the  midnight  reveries  of  the  Young  Astronomer 
have  thoughts  in  them  not  so  fully  expressed  elsewhere 
in  my  writings. 

The  first  of  these  two  poems  is  at  war  with  our  com- 
mon modes  of  thought.  In  looking  forward  to  re- 
joining in  a  future  state  those  whom  we  have  loved  on 
earth,  —  as  most  of  us  hope  and  many  of  us  believe 
we  shall,  —  we  are  apt  to  forget  that  the  same  individ- 
uality is  remembered  by  one  relative  as  a  babe,  by 
another  as  an  adult  in  the  strength  of  maturity,  and 
by  a  third  as  a  wreck  with  little  left  except  its  infirm- 
ities and  its  affections.  The  main  thought  of  this 
poem  is  a  painful  one  to  some  persons.  They  have 
so  closely  associated  life  with  its  accidents  that  they 
expect  to  see  their  departed  friends  in  the  costume  of 
the  time  in  which  they  best  remember  them,  and  feel 


Vlll  PREFACE  TO   THE   NEW   EDITION. 

as  if  they  should  meet  the  spirit  of  their  grandfather 
with  his  wig  and  cane,  as  they  habitually  recall  him 
to  memory. 

The  process  of  scientific  specialization  referred  to 
and  illustrated  in  this  record  has  been  going  on  more 
actively  than  ever  during  these  last  twenty  years. 
We  have  only  to  look  over  the  lists  of  the  Faculties 
and  teachers  of  our  Universities  to  see  the  subdivision 
of  labor  carried  out  as  never  before.  The  movement 
is  irresistible ;  it  brings  with  it  exactness,  exhaustive 
knowledge,  a  narrow  but  complete  self-satisfaction, 
with  such  accompanying  faults  as  pedantry,  triviality, 
and  the  kind  of  partial  blindness  which  belong  to  in- 
tellectual myopia.  The  specialist  is  idealized  almost 
into  sublimity  in  Browning's  "Burial  of  the  Gramma- 
rian." We  never  need  fear  that  he  will  undervalue 
himself.  To  be  the  supreme  authority  on  anything  is 
a  satisfaction  to  self-love  next  door  to  the  precious  de- 
lusions of  dementia.  I  have  never  pictured  a  charac- 
ter more  contented  with  himself  than  the  "Scarabee" 
of  this  story. 

O.  W.  H. 

BEVBKLY  FARMS,  MASS.,  August  1,  1891. 


THE  POET 

AT  THE 

BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


THE  idea  of  a  man's  "interviewing"  himself  is 
rather  odd,  to  be  sure.  But  then  that  is  what  we  are 
all  of  us  doing  every  day.  I  talk  half  the  time  to 
find  out  my  own  thoughts,  as  a  school-boy  turns  his 
pockets  inside  out  to  see  what  is  in  them.  One  brings 
to  light  all  sorts  of  personal  property  he  had  forgot- 
ten  in  his  inventory. 

—  You  don't  know  what  your  thoughts  are  going  to 
be  beforehand?  said  the  "Member  of  the  Haouse,"  as 
he  calls  himself. 

—  Why,  of  course  I  don't.     Bless  your  honest  leg- 
islative soul,  I  suppose  I  have  as  many  bound  volumes 
of  notions  of  one  kind  and  another  in  my  head  as  you 
have  in  your  Representatives'  library  up  there  at  the 
State  House.     I  have  to  tumble  them  over  and  over, 
and  open  them  in  a  hundred  places,  and  sometimes 
cut  the  leaves  here  and  there,  to  find  what  I  think 
about  this  and  that.     And  a  good  many  people  who 
flatter  themselves  they  are  talking  wisdom  to  me,  are 
only  helping  me  to  get  at  the  shelf  and  the  book  and 
the  page  where  I  shall  find  my  own  opinion  about 
the  matter  in  question. 


2  THE   POET  AT   THE    BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

—  The  Member's  eyes  began  to  look  heavy. 

—  It  's  a  very  queer  place,  that  receptacle  a  man 
fetches   his   talk    out   of.     The    library   comparison 
does  n't  exactly  hit  it.     You  stow  away  some  idea  and 
don't  want  it,  say  for  ten  years.     When  it  turns  up 
at  last  it  has  got  so  jammed  and  crushed  out  of  shape 
by  the  other  ideas  packed  with  it,  that  it  is  no  more 
like  what  it  was  than  a  raisin  is  like  a  grape  on  the 
vine,  or  a  fig  from  a  drum  like  one  hanging  on  the 
tree.     Then,  again,  some  kinds  of  thoughts  breed  in 
the  dark  of  one's  mind  like  the  blind  fishes  in  the 
Mammoth  Cave.     We  can't  see  them  and  they  can't 
see  us ;  but  sooner  or  later  the  daylight  gets  in  and 
we  find  that  some  cold,  fishy  little  negative  has  been 
spawning  all  over  our  beliefs,  and  the  brood  of  blind 
questions  it  has  given  birth  to  are  burrowing  round 
and  under  and  butting  their  blunt  noses  against  the 
pillars  of  faith  we  thought  the  whole  world  might  lean 
on.     And   then,   again,   some  of  our  old  beliefs  are 
dying  out  every  year,  and  others  feed  on  them  and 
grow  fat,  or  get  poisoned  as  the  case  may  be.     And 
so,  you  see,  you  can't  tell  what  the  thoughts  are  that 
you  have  got  salted  down,  as  one  may  say,  till  you 
run  a  streak  of  talk  through  them,  as  the  market  peo- 
ple run  a  butter-scoop  through  a  firkin. 

Don't  talk,  thinking  you  are  going  to  find  out  your 
neighbor,  for  you  won't  do  it,  but  talk  to  find  out 
yourself.  There  is  more  of  you  —  and  less  of  you,  in 
spots,  very  likely  —  than  you  know. 

—  The  Member  gave  a  slight  but  unequivocal  start 
just  here.  It  does  seem  as  if  perpetual  somnolence 
was  the  price  of  listening  to  other  people's  wisdom. 
This  was  one  of  those  transient  nightmares  that  one 
may  have  in  a  doze  of  twenty  seconds.  He  thought  a 


THE   POET  AT    THE    BREAKFAST-TABLE.  3 

certain  imaginary  Committee  of  Safety  of  a  certain 
imaginary  Legislature  was  proceeding  to  burn  down 
his  haystack,  in  accordance  with  an  Act,  entitled  an 
Act  to  make  the  Poor  Richer  by  making  the  Rich 
Poorer.  And  the  chairman  of  the  committee  was  in- 
stituting a  forcible  exchange  of  hats  with  him,  to  his 
manifest  disadvantage,  for  he  had  just  bought  him  a 
new  beaver.  He  told  this  dream  afterwards  to  one  of 
the  boarders. 

There  was  nothing  very  surprising,  therefore,  in  his 
asking  a  question  not  very  closely  related  to  what  had 
gone  before. 

—  Do  you  think  they  mean  business? 

—  I  beg  your  pardon,  but  it  would  be  of  material 
assistance  to  me  in  answering  your  question  if  I  knew 
who  "they"  might  happen  to  be. 

—  Why,  those  chaps  that  are  setting  folks  on  to 
burn  us  all  up  in  our  beds.     Political  firebugs  we  call 
'em  up  our  way.     Want  to  substitoot  the  match-box 
for  the  ballot-box.     Scare  all  our  old  women  half  to 
death. 

—  Oh  —  ah  —  yes  —  to  be  sure.     I   don't   believe 
they  say  what  the  papers  put  in  their  mouths  any 
more  than  that  a  friend  of  mine  wrote  the  letter  about 
Worcester's  and  Webster's  Dictionaries,  that  he  had 
to  disown  the  other  day.     These  newspaper  fellows 
are  half  asleep  when  they  make  up  their  reports  at  two 
or  three   o'clock  in   the  morning,   and   fill  out   the 
speeches  to  suit   themselves.     I  do  remember   some 
things  that  sounded  pretty  bad,  —  about  as  bad  as 
nitro-glycerine,  for  that  matter.     But  I  don't  believe 
they  ever  said  'em,  when  they  spoke  their  pieces,  or 
if  they  said    'em    I    know  they  didn't    mean    'em. 
Something  like  this,  wasn't   it?      If  the   majority 


4  THE   POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

didn  't  do  something  the  minority  wanted  'em  to,  then 
the  people  were  to  burn  up  our  cities,  and  knock  us 
down  and  jump  on  our  stomachs.  That  was  about 
the  kind  of  talk,  as  the  papers  had  it;  I  don't  wonder 
it  scared  the  old  women. 

—  The  Member  was  wide  awake  by  this  time. 

—  I  don't  seem  to  remember  of  them  partickler 
phrases,  he  said. 

—  Dear  me,  no;  only  levelling  everything  smack, 
and  trampling  us  under  foot,  as  the  reporters  made  it 
out.     That  means  FIRE,  I  take  it,  and  knocking  you 
down  and  stamping  on  you,  whichever  side  of  your 
person  happens  to  be  uppermost.     Sounded  like   a 
threat;  meant,  of  course,  for  a  warning.     But  I  don't 
believe  it  was  in  the  piece  as  they  spoke  it,  —  could  n't 
have  been.     Then,  again,  Paris  was  n't  to  blame,  — 
as  much  as  to  say  —  so  the  old  women  thought  —  that 
New  York  or  Boston  would  n't  be  to  blame  if  it  did  the 
same  thing.     I  've  heard  of  political  gatherings  where 
they  barbecued  an  ox,  but  I  can't  think  there  's  a 
party  in  this  country  that  wants  to  barbecue  a  city. 
But  it  is  n't  quite  fair  to  frighten  the  old  women.     I 
don't  doubt  there  are  a  great  many  people  wiser  than 
I  am  that  would  n't  be  hurt  by  a  hint  I  am  going  to 
give  them.     It 's  no  matter  what  you  say  when  you 
talk  to  yourself,  but  when  you  talk  to  other  people, 
your  business  is  to  use  words  with  reference  to  the 
way  in  which  those  other  people  are  like  to  understand 
them.     These   pretended   inflammatory   speeches,   so 
reported  as  to  seem  full  of  combustibles,  even  if  they 
were  as  threatening  as  they  have  been  represented, 
would  do  no  harm  if  read  or  declaimed  in  a  man's 
study  to  his  books,  or  by  the  sea-shore  to  the  waves. 
But  they  are  not  so  wholesome  moral  entertainment 


THE   POET  AT  THE   BREAKFAST-TABLE.  5 

for  the  dangerous  classes.  Boys  must  not  touch  off 
their  squibs  and  crackers  too  near  the  powder-maga- 
zine. This  kind  of  speech  does  n't  help  on  the  millen- 
nium much. 

—  It  ain't  jest  the  thing  to  grease  your  ex  with  ile 
O*  vitrul,  said  the  Member. 

—  No,  the  wheel  of  progress  will  soon  stick  fast  if 
you  do.     You  can't  keep  a  dead  level  long,  if  you 
burn  everything  down  flat  to  make  it.     Why,  bless 
your  soul,  if  all  the  cities  of  the  world  were  reduced 
to  ashes,  you  'd  have  a  new  set  of  millionnaires  in  a 
couple  of  years  or  so,  out  of  the  trade  in  potash.     In 
the  mean  time,  what  is  the  use  of  setting  the  man  with 
the  silver  watch  against  the  man  with  the  gold  watch, 
and  the  man  without  any  watch  against  them  both? 

—  You  can't  go  agin  human  natur',  said  the  Mem- 
ber. 

—  You  speak  truly.    Here  we  are  travelling  through 
the  desert  together  like  the  children  of  Israel.     Some 
pick  up  more  manna  and  catch  more  quails  than  oth- 
ers, and  ought  to  help  their  hungry  neighbors  more 
than  they  do ;  that  will  always  be  so  until  we  come 
back  to  primitive  Christianity,  the  road  to  which  does 
not  seem  to  be  via  Paris,  just  now;   but  we  don't 
want  the  incendiary's  pillar  of  a  cloud  by  day  and  a 
pillar  of  fire  by  night  to  lead  us  in  the  march  to  civil- 
ization, and  we  don't  want  a  Moses  who  will  smite 
the  rock,  not  to  bring  out  water  for  our  thirst,  but 
petroleum  to  burn  us  all  up  with. 

—  It  is  n't  quite  fair  to  run  an  opposition  to  the 
other  funny  speaker,  Rev.  Petroleum  V.  What  's-his- 
name,  —  spoke  up  an  anonymous  boarder. 

—  You  may  have  been  thinking,  perhaps,  that  it 


6  THE   POET  AT   THE   BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

was  I,  —  I,  the  Poet,  who  was  the  chief  talker  in  the 
one-sided  dialogue  to  which  you  have  been  listening. 
If  so,  you  were  mistaken.  It  was  the  old  man  in  the 
spectacles  with  large  round  glasses  and  the  iron-gray 
hair.  He  does  a  good  deal  of  the  talking  at  our  table, 
and,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  rather  like  to  hear  him.  He 
stirs  me  up,  and  finds  me  occupation  in  various  ways, 
and  especially,  because  he  has  good  solid  prejudices, 
that  one  can  rub  against,  and  so  get  up  and  let  off  a 
superficial  intellectual  irritation,  just  as  the  cattle  rub 
their  backs  against  a  rail  (you  remember  Sydney 
Smith's  contrivance  in  his  pasture)  or  their  sides 
against  an  apple-tree  (I  don't  know  why  they  take  to 
these  so  particularly,  but  you  will  often  find  the  trunk 
of  an  apple-tree  as  brown  and  smooth  as  an  old  saddle 
at  the  height  of  a  cow's  ribs).  I  think  they  begin 
rubbing  in  cold  blood,  and  then,  you  know,  Vappetit 
went  en  mangeant,  the  more  they  rub  the  more  they 
want  to.  That  is  the  way  to  use  your  friend's  preju- 
dices. This  is  a  sturdy-looking  personage  of  a  good 
deal  more  than  middle  age,  his  face  marked  with 
strong  manly  furrows,  records  of  hard  thinking  and 
square  stand-up  fights  with  life  and  all  its  devils. 
There  is  a  slight  touch  of  satire  in  his  discourse  now 
and  then,  and  an  odd  way  of  answering  one  that 
makes  it  hard  to  guess  how  much  more  or  less  he 
means  than  he  seems  to  say.  But  he  is  honest,  and 
always  has  a  twinkle  in  his  eye  to  put  you  on  your 
guard  when  he  does  not  mean  to  be  taken  quite  liter- 
ally. I  think  old  Ben  Franklin  had  just  that  look. 
I  know  his  great-grandson  (in  pace!)  had  it,  and  I 
don't  doubt  he  took  it  in  the  straight  line  of  descent, 
as  he  did  his  grand  intellect. 

The  Member  of  the  Haouse  evidently  comes  from 


THE   POET  AT  THE   BREAKFAST-TABLE.  7 

one  of  the  lesser  inland  centres  of  civilization,  where 
the  flora  is  rich  in  checkerberries  and  similar  bounties 
of  nature,  and  the  fauna  lively  with  squirrels,  wood- 
chucks,  and  the  like;  where  the  leading  sportsmen 
snare  patridges,  as  they  are  called,  and  "hunt"  foxes 
with  guns;  where  rabbits  are  entrapped  in  "figgery 
fours,"  and  trout  captured  with  the  unpretentious 
earth-worm,  instead  of  the  gorgeous  fly;  where  they 
get  prizes  for  butter  and  cheese,  and  rag-carpets  exe- 
cuted by  ladies  more  than  seventy  years  of  age ;  where 
they  wear  dress-coats  before  dinner,  and  cock  their 
hats  on  one  side  when  they  feel  conspicuous  and  distin- 
guished; where  they  say  Sir  to  you  in  their  common 
talk,  and  have  other  Arcadian  and  bucolic  ways  which 
are  highly  unobjectionable,  but  are  not  so  much  ad- 
mired in  cities,  where  the  people  are  said  to  be  not 
half  so  virtuous. 

There  is  with  us  a  boy  of  modest  dimensions,  not 
otherwise  especially  entitled  to  the  epithet,  who  ought 
to  be  six  or  seven  years  old,  to  judge  by  the  gap  left 
by  his  front  milk  teeth,  these  having  resigned  in  favor 
of  their  successors,  who  have  not  yet  presented  their 
credentials.  He  is  rather  old  for  an  enfant  terrible, 
and  quite  too  young  to  have  grown  into  the  bashful- 
ness  of  adolescence;  but  he  has  some  of  the  qualities 
of  both  these  engaging  periods  of  development.  The 
Member  of  the  Haouse  calls  him  "Bub,"  invariably, 
which  term  I  take  to  be  an  abbreviation  of  "  Beelze- 
bub," as  "'bus"  is  the  short  form  of  "omnibus." 
Many  eminently  genteel  persons,  whose  manners  make 
them  at  home  anywhere,  being  evidently  unaware  of 
the  true  derivation  of  this  word,  are  in  the  habit  of 
addressing  all  unknown  children  by  one  of  the  two 
terms,  "bub"  and  "sis,"  which  they  consider  endears 


8  THE   POET  AT  THE   BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

them  greatly  to  the  young  people,  and  recommends 
them  to  the  acquaintance  of  their  honored  parents,  if 
these  happen  to  accompany  them.  The  other  board- 
ers commonly  call  our  diminutive  companion  That 
Boy.  He  is  a  sort  of  expletive  at  the  table,  serving 
to  stop  gaps,  taking  the  same  place  a  washer  does  that 
makes  a  loose  screw  fit,  and  contriving  to  get  driven 
in  like  a  wedge  between  any  two  chairs  where  there  is 
a  crevice.  I  shall  not  call  that  boy  by  the  monosylla- 
ble referred  to,  because,  though  he  has  many  impish 
traits  at  present,  he  may  become  civilized  and  human- 
ized by  being  in  good  company.  Besides,  it  is  a  term 
which  I  understand  is  considered  vulgar  by  the  nobil- 
ity and  gentry  of  the  Mother  Country,  and  it  is  not 
to  be  found  in  Mr.  Worcester's  Dictionary,  on  which, 
as  is  well  known,  the  literary  men  of  this  metropolis 
are  by  special  statute  allowed  to  be  sworn  in  place  of 
the  Bible.  I  know  one,  certainly,  who  never  takes 
his  oath  on  any  other  dictionary,  any  advertising  fic- 
tion to  the  contrary,  notwithstanding. 

I  wanted  to  write  out  my  account  of  some  of  the 
other  boarders,  but  a  domestic  occurrence  —  a  some- 
what prolonged  visit  from  the  landlady,  who  is  rather 
too  anxious  that  I  should  be  comfortable  —  broke  in 
upon  the  continuity  of  my  thoughts,  and  occasioned 
—  in  short,  I  gave  up  writing  for  that  day. 

—  I  wonder  if  anything  like  this  ever  happened. 

Author  writing,  — 

"  To  be,  or  not  to  be :  that  is  the  question :  — 
Whether  'tisnobl—" 


—  "William,  shall  we  have  pudding  to-day,  or  flap- 
jacks?" 

—  "Flapjacks,  an'  it  please  thee,  Anne,  or  a  pud- 


THE   POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  9 

ding,  for  that  matter ;  or  what  thou  wilt,  good  woman, 
so  thou  come  not  betwixt  me  and  my  thought." 

—  Exit  Mistress  Anne,  with  strongly  accented  clos- 
ing of  the  door  and  murmurs  to  the  effect:  "Ay, 
marry,  't  is  well  for  thee  to  talk  as  if  thou  hadst  no 
stomach  to  fill.  We  poor  wives  must  swink  for  our 
masters,  while  they  sit  in  their  arm-chairs  growing  as 
great  in  the  girth  through  laziness  as  that  ill-mannered 
old  fat  man  William  hath  writ  of  in  his  books  of  play- 
ers' stuff.  One  had  as  well  meddle  with  a  porkpen, 
which  hath  thorns  all  over  him,  as  try  to  deal  with 
William  when  his  eyes  be  rolling  in  that  mad  way." 

William  —  writing  once  more  —  after  an  exclama- 
tion in  strong  English  of  the  older  pattern,  — 
"  Whether  't  is  nobler  —  nobler  —  nobler  — 

To  do  what?  O  these  women!  these  women!  to  have 
puddings  or  flapjacks !  Oh !  — 

Whether  't  is  nobler  —  in  the  mind  —  to  suffer 
The  slings  —  and  arrows  —  of — 

Oh!  Oh!  these  women!  I  will  e'en  step  over  to 
the  parson's  and  have  a  cup  of  sack  with  His  Rever- 
ence, for  methinks  Master  Hamlet  hath  forgot  that 
which  was  just  now  on  his  lips  to  speak." 

So  I  shall  have  to  put  off  making  my  friends  ac- 
quainted with  the  other  boarders,  some  of  whom  seem 
to  me  worth  studying .  and  describing.  I  have  some- 
thing else  of  a  graver  character  for  my  readers.  I  am 
talking,  you  know,  as  a  poet ;  I  do  not  say  I  deserve 
the  name,  but  I  have  taken  it,  and  if  you  consider  me 
at  all  it  must  be  in  that  aspect.  You  will,  therefore, 
perhaps,  be  willing  to  run  your  eyes  over  a  few  pages 
which  I  read,  of  course  by  request,  to  a  select  party  of 
the  boarders. 


10  THE  POET   AT  THE   BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


THE  GAMBREL-ROOFED  HOUSE  AND  ITS 
OUTLOOK. 

A    PANORAMA,   WITH    SIDE-SHOWS. 

My  birthplace,  the  home  of  my  childhood  and  ear« 
lier  and  later  boyhood,  has  within  a  few  months 
passed  out  of  the  ownership  of  my  family  into  the 
hands  of  that  venerable  Alma  Mater  who  seems  to 
have  renewed  her  youth,  and  has  certainly  repainted 
her  dormitories.  In  truth,  when  I  last  revisited  that 
familiar  scene  and  looked  upon  the  flammantia  moenia 
of  the  old  halls,  "Massachusetts"  with  the  dummy 
clock-dial,  "Harvard"  with  the  garrulous  belfry,  lit- 
tle "Holden  "  with  the  sculptured  unpunishable  cherub 
over  its  portal,  and  the  rest  of  my  early  brick-and- 
mortar  acquaintances,  I  could  not  help  saying  to  my- 
self that  I  had  lived  to  see  the  peaceable  establishment 
of  the  Red  Eepublic  of  Letters. 

Many  of  the  things  I  shall  put  down  I  have  no 
doubt  told  before  in  a  fragmentary  way,  how  many 
I  cannot  be  quite  sure,  as  I  do  not  very  often  read  my 
own  prose  works.  But  when  a  man  dies  a  great  deal 
is  said  of  him  which  has  often  been  said  in  other 
forms,  and  now  this  dear  old  house  is  dead  to  me  in 
one  sense,  and  I  want  to  gather  up  my  recollections 
and  wind  a  string  of  narrative  round  them,  tying  them 
up  like  a  nosegay  for  the  last  tribute :  the  same  blos- 
soms in  it  I  have  often  laid  on  its  threshold  while  it 
was  still  living  for  me. 

We  Americans  are  all  cuckoos,  —  we  make  our 
homes  in  the  nests  of  other  birds.  I  have  read  some- 
where that  the  lineal  descendants  of  the  man  who 
carted  off  the  body  of  William  Ruftis,  with  Walter 


THE   POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  11 

Tyrrel's  arrow  sticking  in  it,  have  driven  a  cart  (not 
absolutely  the  same  one,  I  suppose)  in  the  New  Forest, 
from  that  day  to  this.  I  don't  quite  understand  Mr. 
Ruskin's  saying  (if  he  said  it)  that  he  could  n't  get 
along  in  a  country  where  there  were  no  castles,  but  I 
do  think  we  lose  a  great  deal  in  living  where  there 
are  so  few  permanent  homes.  You  will  see  how  much 
I  parted  with  which  was  not  reckoned  in  the  price 
paid  for  the  old  homestead. 

I  shall  say  many  things  which  an  uncharitable 
reader  might  find  fault  with  as  personal.  I  should 
not  dare  to  call  myself  a  poet  if  I  did  not;  for  if 
there  is  anything  that  gives  one  a  title  to  that  name, 
it  is  that  his  inner  nature  is  naked  and  is  not  ashamed. 
But  there  are  many  such  things  I  shall  put  in  words, 
not  because  they  are  personal,  but  because  they  are 
human,  and  are  born  of  just  such  experiences  as  those 
who  hear  or  read  what  I  say  are  like  to  have  had  in 
greater  or  less  measure.  I  find  myself  so  much  like 
other  people  that  I  often  wonder  at  the  coincidence. 
It  was  only  the  other  day  that  I  sent  out  a  copy  of 
verses  about  my  great-grandmother's  picture,  and  I 
was  surprised  to  find  how  many  other  people  had 
portraits  of  their  great-grandmothers  or  other  progen- 
itors, about  which  they  felt  as  I  did  about  mine,  and 
for  whom  I  had  spoken,  thinking  I  was  speaking  for 
myself  only.  And  so  I  am  not  afraid  to  talk  very 
freely  with  you,  my  precious  reader  or  listener.  You 
too,  Beloved,  were  born  somewhere  and  remember 
your  birthplace  or  your  early  home;  for  you  some 
house  is  haunted  by  recollections ;  to  some  roof  you 
have  bid  farewell.  Your  hand  is  upon  mine,  then,  as 
I  guide  my  pen.  Your  heart  frames  the  responses  to 
the  litany  of  my  remembrance.  For  myself  it  is  a 


12  THE   POET  AT   THE   BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

tribute  of  affection  I  am  rendering,  and  I  should  put 
it  on  record  for  my  own  satisfaction,  were  there  none 
to  read  or  to  listen. 

I  hope  you  will  not  say  that  I  have  built  a  pillared 
portico  of  introduction  to  a  humble  structure  of  nar- 
rative. For  when  you  look  at  the  old  gambrel-roofed 
house,  you  will  see  an  unpretending  mansion,  such  as 
very  possibly  you  were  born  in  yourself,  or  at  any 
rate  such  a  place  of  residence  as  your  minister  or  some 
of  your  well-to-do  country  cousins  find  good  enough, 
but  not  a,t  all  too  grand  for  them.  We  have  stately 
old  Colonial  palaces  in  our  ancient  village,  now  a 
city,  and  a  thriving  one,  —  square-fronted  edifices  that 
stand  back  from  the  vulgar  highway,  with  folded 
arms,  as  it  were;  social  fortresses  of  the  time  when 
the  twilight  lustre  of  the  throne  reached  as  far  as  our 
half -cleared  settlement,  with  a  glacis  before  them  in 
the  shape  of  a  long  broad  gravel-walk,  so  that  in  King 
George's  time  they  looked  as  formidably  to  any  but 
the  silk-stocking  gentry  as  Gibraltar  or  Ehrenbreit- 
stein  to  a  visitor  without  the  password.  We  forget 
all  this  in  the  kindly  welcome  they  give  us  to-day; 
for  some  of  them  are  still  standing  and  doubly  famous, 
as  we  all  know.  But  the  gambrel-roofed  house, 
though  stately  enough  for  college  dignitaries  and  schol- 
arly clergymen,  was  not  one  of  those  old  Tory,  Epis- 
copal-church-goer's strongholds.  One  of  its  doors 
opens  directly  upon  the  green,  always  called  the  Com- 
mon ;  the  other,  facing  the  south,  a  few  steps  from  it, 
over  a  paved  foot-walk,  on  the  other  side  of  which  is 
the  miniature  front  yard,  bordered  with  lilacs  and 
syringas.  The  honest  mansion  makes  no  pretensions. 
Accessible,  companionable,  holding  its  hand  out  to 
all,  comfortable,  respectable,  and  even  in  its  way  dig- 


THE   POET  AT   THE   BREAKFAST-TABLE.  13 

nified,  but  not  imposing,  not  a  house  for  his  Majesty's 
Counsellor,  or  the  Right  Reverend  successor  of  Him 
who  had  not  where  to  lay  his  head,  for  something  like 
a  hundred  and  fifty  years  it  has  stood  in  its  lot,  and 
seen  the  generations  of  men  come  and  go  like  the 
leaves  of  the  forest.  I  passed  some  pleasant  hours, 
a  few  years  since,  in  the  Registry  of  Deeds  and  the 
Town  Records  looking  up  the  history  of  the  old  house. 
How  those  dear  friends  of  mine,  the  antiquarians,  for 
whose  grave  councils  I  compose  my  features  on  the  too 
rare  Thursdays  when  I  am  at  liberty  to  meet  them,  in 
whose  human  herbarium  the  leaves  and  blossoms  of 
past  generations  are  so  carefully  spread  out  and  pressed 
and  laid  away,  would  listen  to  an  expansion  of  the 
following  brief  details  into  an  Historical  Memoir ! 

The  estate  was  the  third  lot  of  the  eighth  "  Squad- 
ron "  (whatever  that  might  be),  and  in  the  year  1707 
was  allotted  in  the  distribution  of  undivided  lands  to 
"Mr.  ffox,"  the  Reverend  Jabez  Fox  of  Woburn,  it 
may  be  supposed,  as  it  passed  from  his  heirs  to  the 
first  Jonathan  Hastings ;  from  him  to  his  son,  the  long- 
remembered  College  Steward;  from  him  in  the  year 
1792  to  the  Reverend  Eliphalet  Pearson,  Professor 
of  Hebrew  and  other  Oriental  languages  in  Harvard 
College,  whose  large  personality  swam  into  my  ken 
when  I  was  looking  forward  to  my  teens;  from  him 
to  the  progenitors  of  my  unborn  self. 

I  wonder  if  there  are  any  such  beings  nowadays  as 
the  great  Eliphalet,  with  his  large  features  and  con- 
versational basso  prqfundo,  seemed  to  me.  His  very 
name  had  something  elephantine  about  it,  and  it 
seemed  to  me  that  the  house  shook  from  cellar  to  gar- 
ret at  his  footfall.  Some  have  pretended  that  he  had 
Olympian  aspirations,  and  wanted  to  sit  in  the  seat  of 


14  THE   POET   AT  THE  BKEAKFAST-TABLE. 

Jove  and  bear  the  academic  thunderbolt  and  the  aegis 
inscribed  Christo  et  Ecclesice.  It  is  a  common  weak- 
ness enough  to  wish  to  find  one's  self  in  an  empty  sad- 
dle ;  Cotton  Mather  was  miserable  all  his  days,  I  am 
afraid,  after  that  entry  in  his  Diary:  "This  Day  Dr- 
Sewall  was  chosen  President,/^  Ms  Piety." 

There  is  no  doubt  that  the  men  of  the  older  gener- 
ation look  bigger  and  more  formidable  to  the  boys 
whose  eyes  are  turned  up  at  their  venerable  counte- 
nances than  the  race  which  succeeds  them,  to  the  same 
boys  grown  older.  Everything  is  twice  as  large,  mea- 
sured on  a  three-year-old's  three-foot  scale  as  on  a 
thirty-year-old's  six-foot  scale;  but  age  magnifies  and 
aggravates  persons  out  of  due  proportion.  Old  peo- 
ple are  a  kind  of  monsters  to  little  folks ;  mild  mani- 
festations of  the  terrible,  it  may  be,  but  still,  with 
their  white  locks  and  ridged  and  grooved  features, 
which  those  horrid  little  eyes  exhaust  of  their  details, 
like  so  many  microscopes  not  exactly  what  human 
beings  ought  to  be.  The  middle-aged  and  young 
men  have  left  comparatively  faint  impressions  in  my 
memory,  but  how  grandly  the  procession  of  the  old 
clergymen  who  filled  our  pulpit  from  time  to  time, 
and  passed  the  day  under  our  roof,  marches  before  my 
closed  eyes !  At  their  head  the  most  venerable  David 
Osgood,  the  majestic  minister  of  Medford,  with  mas- 
sive front  and  shaggy  over-shadowing  eyebrows ;  fol- 
lowing in  the  train,  mild-eyed  John  Foster  of  Brigh- 
ton, with  the  lambent  aurora  of  a  smile  about  his 
pleasant  mouth,  which  not  even  the  "  Sabbath  "  could 
subdue  to  the  true  Levitical  aspect;  and  bulky 
Charles  Stearns  of  Lincoln,  author  of  "The  Ladies' 
Philosophy  of  Love.  A  Poem.  1797  "  (how  I  stared 
at  him !  he  was  the  first  living  person  ever  pointed  out 


THE  POET    AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  15 

to  me  as  a  poet);  and  Thaddeus  Mason  Harris  of 
Dorchester  (the  same  who^  a  poor  youth,  trudging 
along,  staff  in  hand,  being  then  in  a  stress  of  sore 
need,  found  all  at  once  that  somewhat  was  adhering  to 
the  end  of  his  stick,  which  somewhat  proved  to  be  a 
gold  ring  of  price,  bearing  the  words,  "God  speed 
thee,  Friend! "),  already  in  decadence  as  I  remember 
him,  with  head  slanting  forward  and  downward  as 
if  looking  for  a  place  to  rest  in  after  his  learned  la- 
bors ;  and  that  other  Thaddeus,  the  old  man  of  West 
Cambridge,  who  outwatched  the  rest  so  long  after  they 
had  gone  to  sleep  in  their  own  churchyards,  that  it  al- 
most seemed  as  if  he  meant  to  sit  up  until  the  morning 
of  the  resurrection ;  and  bringing  up  the  rear,  atten- 
uated but  vivacious  little  Jonathan  Homer  of  Newton, 
who  was,  to  look  upon,  a  kind  of  expurgated,  reduced 
and  Americanized  copy  of  Voltaire,  but  very  unlike 
him  in  wickedness  or  wit.  The  good-humored  junior 
member  of  our  family  always  loved  to  make  him  happy 
by  setting  him  chirruping  about  Miles  Coverdale's 
Version,  and  the  Bishop's  Bible,  and  how  he  wrote  to 
his  friend  Sir  Isaac  (Coffin)  about  something  or  other, 
and  how  Sir  Isaac  wrote  back  that  he  was  very  much 
pleased  with  the  contents  of  his  letter,  and  so  on 
about  Sir  Isaac,  ad  libitum,  —  for  the  admiral  was  his 
old  friend,  and  he  was  proud  of  him.  The  kindly  lit- 
tle old  gentleman  was  a  collector  of  Bibles,  and  made 
himself  believe  he  thought  he  should  publish  a  learned 
Commentary  some  day  or  other;  but  his  friends 
looked  for  it  only  in  the  Greek  Calends,  —  say  on  the 
31st  of  April,  when  that  should  come  round,  if  you 
would  modernize  the  phrase.  I  recall  also  one  or  two 
exceptional  and  infrequent  visitors  with  perfect  dis- 
tinctness :  cheerful  Elijah  Kellogg,  a  lively  missionary 


16  THE   POET  AT  THE   BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

from  the  region  of  the  Quoddy  Indians,  with  much 
hopefid  talk  about  Sock  Bason  and  his  tribe;  also 
poor  old  Poor-house-Parson  Isaac  Smith,  his  head 
going  like  a  China  mandarin,  as  he  discussed  the  pos- 
sibilities of  the  escape  of  that  distinguished  captive 
whom  he  spoke  of  under  the  name,  if  I  can  reproduce 
phonetically  its  vibrating  nasalities  of  "General 
Mmbongaparty,"  —  a  name  suggestive  to  my  young 
imagination  of  a  dangerous,  loose- jointed  skeleton, 
threatening  us  all  like  the  armed  figure  of  Death  in 
my  little  New  England  Primer. 

I  have  mentioned  only  the  names  of  those  whose 
images  come  up  pleasantly  before  me,  and  I  do  not 
mean  to  say  anything  which  any  descendant  might  not 
read  smilingly.  But  there  were  some  of  the  black- 
coated  gentry  whose  aspect  was  not  so  agreeable  to 
me.  It  is  very  curious  to  me  to  look  back  on  my 
early  likes  and  dislikes,  and  see  how  as  a  child  I  was 
attracted  or  repelled  by  such  and  such  ministers,  a 
good  deal,  as  I  found  out  long  afterwards,  according 
to  their  theological  beliefs.  On  the  whole,  I  think  the 
old-fashioned  New  England  divine  softening  down  into 
Arminianism  was  about  as  agreeable  as  any  of  them. 
And  here  I  may  remark,  that  a  mellowing  rigorist  is 
always  a  much  pleasanter  object  to  contemplate  than 
a  tightening  liberal,  as  a  cold  day  warming  up  to  32° 
Fahrenheit  is  much  more  agreeable  than  a  warm  one 
chilling  down  to  the  same  temperature.  The  least 
pleasing  change  is  that  kind  of  mental  hemiplegia 
which  now  and  then  attacks  the  rational  side  of  a  man 
at  about  the  same  period  of  life  when  one  side  of  the 
body  is  liable  to  be  palsied,  and  in  fact  is,  very  prob- 
ably, the  same  thing  as  palsy,  in  another  form.  The 
worst  of  it  is  that  the  subjects  of  it  never  seem  to  sus- 


THE  POET  AT   THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  17 

pect  that  they  are  intellectual  invalids,  stammerers  and 
cripples  at  best,  but  are  all  the  time  hitting  out  at 
their  old  friends  with  the  well  arm,  and  calling*  them 
hard  names  out  of  their  twisted  mouths. 

It  was  a  real  delight  to  have  one  of  those  good, 
hearty,  happy,  benignant  old  clergymen  pass  the  Sun- 
day  with  us,  and  I  can  remember  some  whose  advent 
made  the  day  feel  almost  like  "Thanksgiving."  But 
now  and  then  would  come  along  a  clerical  visitor  with 
a  sad  face  and  a  wailing  voice,  which  sounded  exactly 
as  if  somebody  must  be  lying  dead  up  stairs,  who  took 
no  interest  in  us  children,  except  a  painful  one,  as 
being  in  a  bad  way  with  our  cheery  looks,  and  did 
more  to  unchristianize  us  with  his  woebegone  ways 
than  all  his  sermons  were  like  to  accomplish  in  the 
other  direction.  I  remember  one  in  particular,  who 
twitted  me  so  with  my  blessings  as  a  Christian  child, 
and  whined  so  to  me  about  the  naked  black  children 
who,  like  the  "Little  Vulgar  Boy,"  "hadn't  got  no 
supper  and  hadn't  got  no  ma,"  and  hadn't  got  no 
Catechism,  (how  I  wished  for  the  moment  I  was  a  lit- 
tle black  boy !)  that  he  did  more  in  that  one  day  to 
make  me  a  heathen  than  he  had  ever  done  in  a  month 
to  make  a  Christian  out  of  an  infant  Hottentot. 
What  a  debt  we  owe  to  our  friends  of  the  left  centre, 
the  Brooklyn  and  the  Park  Street  and  the  Summer 
Street  ministers;  good,  wholesome,  sound-bodied, 
sane-minded,  cheerful-spirited  men,  who  have  taken 
the  place  of  those  wailing  poitrinaires  with  the  ban- 
danna handkerchiefs  round  their  meagre  throats  and 
a  funeral  service  in  their  forlorn  physiognomies !  I 
might  have  been  a  minister  myself,  for  aught  I  know, 
if  this  clergyman  had  not  looked  and  talked  so  like  an 
undertaker. 


18  THE   POET  AT   THE   BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

•  All  this  belongs  to  one  of  the  side-shows,  to  which 
I  promised  those  who  would  take  tickets  to  the  main 
exhibition  should  have  entrance  gratis.  If  I  were 
writing  a  poem  you  would  expect,  as  a  matter  of 
course,  that  there  would  be  a  digression  now  and  then. 
To  come  back  to  the  old  house  and  its  former 
tenant,  the  Professor  of  Hebrew  and  other  Oriental 
languages.  Fifteen  years  he  lived  with  his  family  un- 
der its  roof.  I  never  found  the  slightest  trace  of  him 
until  a  few  years  ago,  when  I  cleaned  and  brightened 
with  pious  hands  the  brass  lock  of  "the  study,"  which 
had  for  many  years  been  covered  with  a  thick  coat  of 
paint.  On  that  I  found  scratched,  as  with  a  nail  or 
fork,  the  following  inscription :  — 

E  PE 

Only  that  and  nothing  more,  but  the  story  told  it- 
self. Master  Edward  Pearson,  then  about  as  high  as 
the  lock,  was  disposed  to  immortalize  himself  in  mon- 
umental brass,  and  had  got  so  far  towards  it,  when 
a  sudden  interruption,  probably  a  smart  box  on  the 
ear,  cheated  him  of  his  fame,  except  so  far  as  this 
poor  record  may  rescue  it.  Dead  long  ago.  I  remem- 
ber him  well,  a  grown  man,  as  a  visitor  at  a  later 
period ;  and,  for  some  reason,  I  recall  him  in  the  atti- 
tude of  the  Colossus  of  Rhodes,  standing  full  before 
a  generous  wood-fire,  not  facing  it,  but  quite  the  con- 
trary, a  perfect  picture  of  the  content  afforded  by  a 
blazing  hearth  contemplated  from  that  point  of  view, 
and,  as  the  heat  stole  through  his  person  and  kindled 
his  emphatic  features,  seeming  to  me  a  pattern  of 
manly  beauty.  What  a  statue  gallery  of  posturing 
friends  we  all  have  in  our  memory !  The  old  Profes- 
sor himself  sometimes  visited  the  house  after  it  had 


THE   POET  AT  THE   BREAKFAST-TABLE.  19 

changed  hands.  Of  course,  my  recollections  are  not  to 
be  wholly  trusted,  but  I  always  think  I  see  his  likeness 
in  a  profile  face  to  be  found  among  the  illustrations  of 
Eees's  Cyclopedia.  (See  Plates,  Vol.  IV.,  Plate  2, 
Painting,  Diversities  of  the  Human  Face,  Fig.  4.) 

And  now  let  us  return  to  our  chief  picture.  In  the 
days  of  my  earliest  remembrance,  a  row  of  tall  Lom- 
bardy  poplars  mounted  guard  on  the  western  side  of 
the  old  mansion.  Whether,  like  the  cypress,  these 
trees  suggest  the  idea  of  the  funeral  torch  or  the  mon- 
umental spire,  whether  their  tremulous  leaves  make 
us  afraid  by  sympathy  with  their  nervous  thrills, 
whether  the  faint  balsamic  smell  of  their  foliage  and 
their  closely  swathed  limbs  have  in  them  vague  hints 
of  dead  Pharaohs  stiffened  in  their  cerements,  I  will 
not  guess ;  but  they  always  seemed  to  me  to  give  an 
air  of  sepulchral  sadness  to  the  house  before  which 
they  stood  sentries.  Not  so  with  the  row  of  elms 
which  you  may  see  leading  up  towards  the  western  en- 
trance. I  think  the  patriarch  of  them  all  went  over 
in  the  great  gale  of  1815 ;  I  know  I  used  to  shake  the 
youngest  of  them  with  my  hands,  stout  as  it  is  now, 
with  a  trunk  that  would  defy  the  bully  of  Crotona,  or 
the  strong  man  whose  liaison  with  the  Lady  Delilah 
proved  so  disastrous. 

The  College  plain  would  be  nothing  without  its 
elms.  As  the  long  hair  of  a  woman  is  a  glory  to  her, 
so  are  these  green  tresses  that  bank  themselves  against 
the  sky  in  thick  clustered  masses  the  ornament  and  the 
pride  of  the  classic  green.  You  know  the  "Washing- 
ton elm,"  or  if  you  do  not,  you  had  better  rekindle 
your  patriotism  by  reading  the  inscription,  which  tells 
you  that  under  its  shadow  the  great  leader  first  drew 
his  sword  at  the  head  of  an  American  army.  In  a 


20  THE  POET   AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

line  with  that  you  may  see  two  others :  the  coral  fan, 
as  I  always  called  it  from  its  resemblance  in  form  to 
that  beautiful  marine  growth,  and  a  third  a  little  far- 
ther along.  I  have  heard  it  said  that  all  three  were 
planted  at  the  same  time,  and  that  the  difference  of 
their  growth  is  due  to  the  slope  of  the  ground,  —  the 
Washington  elm  being  lower  than  either  of  the  others. 
There  is  a  row  of  elms  just  in  front  of  the  old  house 
on  the  south.  When  I  was  a  child  the  one  at  the 
southwest  corner  was  struck  by  lightning,  and  one  of 
its  limbs  and  a  long  ribbon  of  bark  torn  away.  The 
tree  never  fidly  recovered  its  symmetry  and  vigor, 
and  forty  years  and  more  afterwards  a  second  thunder- 
bolt crashed  upon  it  and  set  its  heart  on  fire,  like  those 
of  the  lost  souls  in  the  Hall  of  Eblis.  Heaven  had 
twice  blasted  it,  and  the  axe  finished  what  the  light- 
ning had  begun. 

The  soil  of  the  University  town  is  divided  into 
patches  of  sandy  and  of  clayey  ground.  The  Com- 
mon and  the  College  green,  near  which  the  old  house 
stands,  are  on  one  of  the  sandy  patches.  Four  curses 
are  the  local  inheritance:  droughts,  dust,  mud,  and 
canker-worms.  I  cannot  but  think  that  all  the  char- 
acters of  a  region  help  to  modify  the  children  born  in 
it.  I  am  fond  of  making  apologies  for  human  nature, 
and  I  think  I  could  find  an  excuse  for  myself  if  I,  too, 
were  dry  and  barren  and  muddy- witted  and  "cantan- 
kerous,"—  disposed  to  get  my  back  up,  like  those 
other  natives  of  the  soil. 

I  know  this,  that  the  way  Mother  Earth  treats  a  boy 
shapes  out  a  kind  of  natural  theology  for  him.  I  fell 
into  Manichean  ways  of  thinking  from  the  teaching  of 
my  garden  experiences.  Like  other  boys  in  the  coun- 
try, I  had  my  patch  of  ground,  to  which,  in  the  spring- 


THE   POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  21 

time,  I  entrusted  the  seeds  furnished  me,  with  a  con- 
fident trust  in  their  resurrection  and  glorification  in 
the  better  world  of  summer.  But  I  soon  found  that 
my  lines  had  fallen  in  a  place  where  a  vegetable 
growth  had  to  run  the  gauntlet  of  as  many  foes  and 
trials  as  a  Christian  pilgrim.  Flowers  would  not 
blow;  daffodils  perished  like  criminals  in  their  con- 
demned caps,  without  their  petals  ever  seeing  daylight; 
roses  were  disfigured  with  monstrous  protrusions 
through  their  very  centres,  —  something  that  looked 
like  a  second  bud  pushing  through  the  middle  of  the 
corolla;  lettuces  and  cabbages  would  not  head;  rad- 
ishes knotted  themselves  until  they  looked  like  cente- 
narians' fingers;  and  on  every  stem,  on  every  leaf,  and 
both  sides  of  it,  and  at  the  root  of  everything  that 
grew,  was  a  professional  specialist  in  the  shape  of 
grub,  caterpillar,  aphis,  or  other  expert,  whose  busi- 
ness it  was  to  devour  that  particular  part,  and  help 
murder  the  whole  attempt  at  vegetation.  Such  expe- 
riences must  influence  a  child  born  to  them.  A  sandy 
soil,  where  nothing  flourishes  but  weeds  and  evil 
beasts  of  small  dimensions,  must  breed  different  qual- 
ities in  its  human  offspring  from  one  of  those  fat  and 
fertile  spots  which  the  wit  whom  I  have  once  before 
quoted  described  so  happily  that,  if  I  quoted  the  pas- 
sage, its  brilliancy  would  spoil  one  of  my  pages,  as  a 
diamond  breastpin  sometimes  kills  the  social  effect  of 
the  wearer,  who  might  have  passed  for  a  gentleman 
without  it.  Your  arid  patch  of  earth  should  seem  to 
be  the  natural  birthplace  of  the  leaner  virtues  and  the 
feebler  vices,  —  of  temperance  and  the  domestic  pro- 
prieties on  the  one  hand,  with  a  tendency  to  light 
weights  in  groceries  and  provisions,  and  to  clandestine 
abstraction  from  the  person  on  the  other,  as  opposed  to 


22  THE  POET   AT   THE    BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

the  free  hospitality,  the  broadly  planned  burglaries, 
and  the  largely  conceived  homicides  of  our  rich  West- 
ern alluvial  regions.  Yet  Nature  is  never  wholly 
unkind.  Economical  as  she  was  in  my  unparadised 
Eden,  hard  as  it  was  to  make  some  of  my  floral  houris 
unveil,  still  the  damask  roses  sweetened  the  June 
breezes,  the  bladed  and  plumed  flower-de-luces  un- 
folded their  close-wrapped  cones,  and  larkspurs  and 
lupins,  lady's  delights, — plebeian  manifestations  of 
the  pansy,  —  self -sowing  marigolds,  hollyhocks,  the 
forest  flowers  of  two  seasons,  and  the  perennial  lilacs 
and  syringas,  —  all  whispered  to  the  winds  blowing 
over  them  that  some  caressing  presence  was  around 
me. 

Beyond  the  garden  was  "the  field,"  a  vast  domain 
of  four  acres  or  thereabout,  by  the  measurement  of 
after  years,  bordered  to  the  north  by  a  fathomless 
chasm,  —  the  ditch  the  base-ball  players  of  the  present 
era  jump  over;  on  the  east  by  unexplored  territory; 
on  the  south  by  a  barren  enclosure,  where  the  red 
sorrel  proclaimed  liberty  and  equality  under  its  dra- 
peau  rouge,  and  succeeded  in  establishing  a  vegetable 
commune  where  all  were  alike,  poor,  mean,  sour,  and 
uninteresting;  and  on  the  west  by  the  Common,  not 
then  disgraced  by  jealous  enclosures,  which  make  it 
look  like  a  cattle-market.  Beyond,  as  I  looked  round, 
were  the  Colleges,  the  meeting-house,  the  little  square 
market-house,  long  vanished ;  the  burial-ground  where 
the  dead  Presidents  stretched  their  weary  bones  un- 
der epitaphs  stretched  out  at  as  full  length  as  their 
subjects;  the  pretty  church  where  the  gouty  Tories, 
used  to  kneel  on  their  hassocks;  the  district  school- 
house,  and  hard  by  it  Ma'am  Hancock's  cottage, 
never  so  called  in  those  days,  but  rather,  "tenfooter"; 


THE   POET   AT   THE   BREAKFAST-TABLE.  23 

then  houses  scattered  near  and  far,  open  spaces,  the 
shadowy  elms,  round  hilltops  in  the  distance,  and  over 
all  the  great  bowl  of  the  sky.  Mind  you,  this  was 
the  WORLD,  as  I  first  knew  it ;  terra  veteribus  cognita, 
as  Mr.  Arrowsmith  would  have  called  it,  if  he  had 
mapped  the  universe  of  my  infancy. 

But  I  am  forgetting  the  old  house  again  in  the 
landscape.  The  worst  of  a  modern  stylish  mansion 
is,  that  it  has  no  place  for  ghosts.  I  watched  one 
building  not  long  since.  It  had  no  proper  garret,  to 
begin  with,  only  a  sealed  interval  between  the  roof  and 
attics,  where  a  spirit  could  not  be  accommodated,  un- 
less it  were  flattened  out  like  Ravel,  Brother,  after  the 
millstone  had  fallen  on  him.  There  was  not  a  nook 
or  a  corner  in  the  whole  house  fit  to  lodge  any  respect- 
able ghost,  for  every  part  was  as  open  to  observation 
as  a  literary  man's  character  and  condition,  his  figure 
and  estate,  his  coat  and  his  countenance,  are  to  his  (or 
her)  Bohemian  Majesty  on  a  tour  of  inspection  through 
his  (or  her)  subjects'  keyholes. 

Now  the  old  house  had  wainscots,  behind  which  the 
mice  were  always  scampering  and  squeaking  and  rat- 
tling down  the  plaster,  and  enacting  family  scenes  and 
parlor  theatricals.  It  had  a  cellar  where  the  cold  slug 
clung  to  the  walls,  and  the  misanthropic  spider  with- 
drew from  the  garish  day;  where  the  green  mould 
loved  to  grow,  and  the  long  white  potato-shoots  went 
feeling  along  the  floor,  if  haply  they  might  find  the 
daylight ;  it  had  great  brick  pillars,  always  in  a  cold 
sweat  with  holding  up  the  burden  they  had  been  ach- 
ing under  day  and  night  for  a  century  and  more ;  it 
had  sepulchral  arches  closed  by  rough  doors  that  hung 
on  hinges  rotten  with  rust,  behind  which  doors,  if 
there  was  not  a  heap  of  bones  connected  with  a  myste- 


24  THE   POET   AT   THE   BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

rious  disappearance  of  long  ago,  there  well  might  have 
been,  for  it  was  just  the  place  to  look  for  them.  It 
had  a  garret,  very  nearly  such  a  one  as  it  seems  to  me 
one  of  us  has  described  in  one  of  his  books ;  but  let  us 
look  at  this  one  as  I  can  reproduce  it  from  memory. 
It  has  a  flooring  of  laths  with  ridges  of  mortar  squeezed 
up  between  them,  which  if  you  tread  on  you  will  go  tc 

—  the  Lord  have  mercy  on  you !  where  will  you  go  to  ? 

—  the  same  being  crossed  by  narrow  bridges  of  boards, 
on  which  you  may  put  your  feet,  but  with  fear  and 
trembling.     Above  you  and   around  you   are  beams 
and  joists,  on  some  of  which  you  may  see,  when  the 
light  is  let  in,  the  marks  of  the  conchoidal  clippings  of 
the  broadaxe,  showing  the  rude  way  in  which  the  tim- 
ber was  shaped  as  it  came,  full  of  sap,  from  the  neigh- 
boring forest.     It  is  a  realm  of  darkness  and  thick 
dust,  and  shroud-like  cobwebs  and  dead  things  they 
wrap  in  their  gray  folds.     For  a  garret  is  like  a  sea- 
shore, where  wrecks  are  thrown  up  and  slowly  go  to 
pieces.     There  is  the  cradle  which  the  old  man  you 
just  remember  was  rocked  in ;  there  is  the  ruin  of  the 
bedstead  he  died  on ;  that  ugly  slanting  contrivance 
used  to  be  put  under  his  pillow  in  the  days  when  his 
breath  came  hard;  there  is  his  old  chair  with  both 
arms  gone,  symbol  of  the  desolate  time  when  he  had 
nothing  earthly  left  to  lean  on;  there  is   the   large 
wooden  reel  which  the  blear-eyed  old  deacon  sent  the 
minister's  lady,   who    thanked   him   graciously,   and 
twirled  it  smilingly,  and  in  fitting  season  bowed  it  out 
decently  to  the  limbo  of   troublesome   conveniences. 
And  there  are  old  leather  portmanteaus,  like  stranded 
porpoises,  their  mouths  gaping  in  gaunt  hunger  for  the 
food  with  which  they  used  to  be  gorged  to  bulging 
repletion;  and  old  brass  andirons,  waiting  until  timd 


THE   POET   AT   THE   BREAKFAST-TABLE.  25 

shall  revenge  them  on  their  paltry  substitutes,  and  they 
shall  have  their  own  again,  and  bring  with  them  the 
fore-stick  and  the  back-log  of  ancient  days ;  and  the 
empty  churn,  with  its  idle  dasher,  which  the  Nancys 
and  Phosbes,  who  have  left  their  comfortable  places  to 
the  Bridgets  and  Norahs,  used  to  handle  to  good  pur- 
pose ;  and  the  brown,  shaky  old  spinning-wheel,  which 
was  running,  it  may  be,  in  the  days  when  they  were 
hanging  the  Salem  witches. 

Under  the  dark  and  haunted  garret  were  attic 
chambers  which  themselves  had  histories.  On  a  pane 
in  the  northeastern  chamber  may  be  read  these  names : 
"John  Tracy,"  ''Robert  Roberts,"  "  Thomas  Prince  "; 
"  Stultus  "  another  hand  had  added.  When  I  found 
these  names  a  few  years  ago  (wrong  side  up,  for  the 
window  had  been  reversed),  I  looked  at  once  in  the 
Triennial  to  find  them,  for  the  epithet  showed  that 
they  were  probably  students.  I  found  them  all  under 
the  years  1771  and  1773.  Does  it  please  their  thin 
ghosts  thus  to  be  dragged  to  the  light  of  day?  Has 
"  Stultus  "  forgiven  the  indignity  of  being  thus  char- 
acterized? 

The  southeast  chamber  was  the  Library  Hospital. 
Every  scholar  should  have  a  book  infirmary  attached 
to  his  library.  There  should  find  a  peaceable  refuge 
the  many  books,  invalids  from  their  birth,  which  are 
sent  "with  the  best  regards  of  the  Author";  the  re. 
spected,  but  unpresentable  cripples  which  have  lost 
a  cover;  the  odd  volumes  of  honored  sets  which  go 
mourning  all  their  days  for  their  lost  brother;  the 
school-books  which  have  been  so  often  the  subjects  of 
assault  and  battery,  that  they  look  as  if  the  police 
court  must  know  them  by  heart ;  these  and  still  more 
the  pictured  story-books,  beginning  with  Mother  Goose 


26  THE   POET    AT   THE   BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

(which  a  dear  old  friend  of  mine  has  just  been  amus- 
ing his  philosophic  leisure  with  turning  most  ingen- 
iously and  happily  into  the  tongues  of  Virgil  and 
Homer),  will  be  precious  mementos  by  and  by,  when 
children  and  grandchildren  come  along.  What  would 
1  not  give  for  that  dear  little  paper-bound  quarto,  in 
large  and  most  legible  type,  on'certain  pages  of  which 
the  tender  hand  that  was  the  shield  of  my  infancy  had 
crossed  out  with  deep  black  marks  something  awful, 
probably  about  BEARS,  such  as  once  tare  two-and- 
forty  of  us  little  folks  for  making  faces,  and  the  very 
name  of  which  made  us  hide  our  heads  under  the  bed- 
clothes. 

I  made  strange  acquaintances  in  that  book  infirm- 
ary up  in  the  southeast  attic.  The  "Negro  Plot"  at 
New  York  helped  to  implant  a  feeling  in  me  which  it 
took  Mr.  Garrison  a  good  many  years  to  root  out. 
"Thinks  I  to  Myself,"  an  old  novel,  which  has  been 
attributed  to  a  famous  statesman,  introduced  me  to 
a  world  of  fiction  which  was  not  represented  on  the 
shelves  of  the  library  proper,  unless  perhaps  by  Cce- 
lebs  in  Search  of  a  Wife,  or  allegories  of  the  bitter 
tonic  class,  as  the  young  doctor  that  sits  on  the  other 
side  of  the  table  would  probably  call  them.  I  always, 
from  an  early  age,  had  a  keen  eye  for  a  story  with  a 
moral  sticking  out  of  it,  and  gave  it  a  wide  berth, 
though  in  my  later  years  I  have  myself  written  a 
couple  of  "medicated  novels,"  as  one  of  my  dearest 
and  pleasantest  old  friends  wickedly  called  them, 
when  somebody  asked  her  if  she  had  read  the  last  of 
my  printed  performances.  I  forgave  the  satire  for 
the  charming  esprit  of  the  epithet.  Besides  the  works 
I  have  mentioned,  there  was  an  old,  old  Latin  alchemy 
book,  with  the  manuscript  annotations  of  some  ancient 


THE   POET   AT   THE   BREAKFAST-TABLE.  27 

Rosicrucian,  in  the  pages  of  which  I  had  a  vague  no- 
tion that  I  might  find  the  mighty  secret  of  the  Lapis 
Philosophorum,  otherwise  called  Chaos,  the  Dragon, 
the  Green  Lion,  the  Quinta  Essentia,  the  Soap  of 
Sages,  the  Vinegar  of  Philosophers,  the  Dew  of  Hea- 
venly Grace,  the  Egg,  the  Old  Man,  the  Sun,  the 
Moon,  and  by  all  manner  of  odd  aliases,  as  I  am  as- 
sured by  the  plethoric  little  book  before  me,  in  parch- 
ment covers  browned  like  a  meerschaum  with  the 
smoke  of  furnaces  and  the  thumbing  of  dead  gold- 
seekers,  and  the  fingering  of  bony -handed  book-misers, 
and  the  long  intervals  of  dusty  slumber  on  the  shelves 
of  the  bouquiniste  ;  for  next  year  it  will  be  three  cen- 
turies old,  and  it  had  already  seen  nine  generations 
of  men  when  I  caught  its  eye  (Alchemice  Doctrina) 
and  recognized  it  at  pistol-shot  distance  as  a  prize, 
among  the  breviaries  and  Heures  and  trumpery  vol- 
umes of  the  old  open-air  dealer  who  exposed  his 
treasures  under  the  shadow  of  St.  Sulpice.  I  have 
never  lost  my  taste  for  alchemy  since  I  first  got  hold 
of  the  Palladium  Spagyriwm  of  Peter  John  Faber, 
and  sought  —  in  vain,  it  is  true  —  through  its  pages 
for  a  clear,  intelligible,  and  practical  statement  of 
how  I  could  turn  my  lead  sinkers  and  the  weights  of 
the  tall  kitchen  clock  into  good  yellow  gold,  specific 
gravity  19.2,  and  exchangeable  for  whatever  I  then 
wanted,  and  for  many  more  things  than  I  was  then 
aware  of.  One  of  the  greatest  pleasures  of  childhood 
is  found  in  the  mysteries  which  it  hides  from  the  skep- 
ticism of  the  elders,  and  works  up  into  small  mythol- 
ogies of  its  own.  I  have  seen  all  this  played  over 
again  in  adult  life,  —  the  same  delightful  bewilderment 
of  semi-emotional  belief  in  listening  to  the  gaseous 
promises  of  this  or  that  fantastic  system,  that  I  found 


28  THE   POET    AT   THE    BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

in  the  pleasing  mirages  conjured  up  for  me  by  the 
ragged  old  volume  I  used  to  pore  over  in  the  southeast 
attic-chamber. 

The  rooms  of  the  second  story,  the  chambers  of 
birth  and  death,  are  sacred  to  silent  memories. 

Let  us  go  down  to  the  ground-floor.  I  should 
have  begun  with  this,  but  that  the  historical  reminis- 
cences of  the  old  house  have  been  recently  told  in  a 
most  interesting  memoir  by  a  distinguished  student  of 
our  local  history.  I  retain  my  doubts  about  those 
"dents"  on  the  floor  of  the  right-hand  room,  "the 
study  "of  successive  occupants,  said  to  have  been  made 
by  the  butts  of  the  Continental  militia's  firelocks,  but 
this  was  the  cause  to  which  the  story  told  me  in  child- 
hood laid  them.  That  military  consultations  were 
held  in  that  room  when  the  house  was  General  Ward's 
headquarters,  that  the  Provincial  generals  and  colonels 
and  other  men  of  war  there  planned  the  movement 
which  ended  in  the  fortifying  of  Bunker's  Hill,  that 
Warren  slept  in  the  house  the  night  before  the  battle, 
that  President  Langdon  went  forth  from  the  western 
door  and  prayed  for  God's  blessing  on  the  men  just 
setting  forth  on  their  bloody  expedition,  —  all  these 
things  have  been  told,  and  perhaps  none  of  them  need 
be  doubted. 

But  now  for  fifty  years  and  more  that  room  has 
been  a  meeting-ground  for  the  platoons  and  companies 
which  range  themselves  at  the  scholar's  word  of  com- 
mand. Pleasant  it  is  to  think  that  the  retreating  host 
of  books  is  to  give  place  to  a  still  larger  army  of  vol- 
umes, which  have  seen  service  under  the  eye  of  a  great 
commander.  For  here  the  noble  collection  of  him  so 
freshly  remembered  as  our  silver-tongued  orator,  our 
erudite  scholar,  our  honored  College  President,  our 


THE  POET   AT   THE   BKEAKFAST-TABLE.  29 

accomplished  statesman,  our  courtly  ambassador,  are 
to  be  reverently  gathered  by  the  heir  of  his  name,  him- 
self  not  unworthy  to  be  surrounded  by  that  august  as- 
sembly of  the  wise  of  all  ages  and  of  various  lands  and 
languages. 

Could  such  a  many-chambered  edifice  have  stood  a 
century  and  a  half  and  not  have  had  its  passages  of 
romance  to  bequeath  their  lingering  legends  to  the 
after-time?  There  are  other  names  on  some  of  the 
small  window-panes,  which  must  have  had  young  flesh- 
and-blood  owners,  and  there  is  one  of  early  date  which 
elderly  persons  have  whispered  was  borne  by  a  fair 
woman,  whose  graces  made  the  house  beautifid  in  the 
eyes  of  the  youth  of  that  time.  One  especially  —  you 
will  find  the  name  of  Fortescue  Vernon,  of  the  class 
of  1780,  in  the  Triennial  Catalogue  —  was  a  favored 
visitor  to  the  old  mansion ;  but  he  went  over  seas,  I 
think  they  told  me,  and  died  still  young,  and  the 
name  of  the  maiden  which  is  scratched  on  the  window- 
pane  was  never  changed.  I  am  telling  the  story  hon- 
estly, as  I  remember  it,  but  I  may  have  colored  it 
unconsciously,  and  the  legendary  pane  may  be  broken 
before  this  for  aught  I  know.  At  least,  I  have  named 
no  names  except  the  beautiful  one  of  the  supposed 
hero  of  the  romantic  story. 

It  was  a  great  happiness  to  have  been  born  in  an 
old  house  haunted  by  such  recollections,  with  harmless 
ghosts  walking  its  corridors,  with  fields  of  waving 
grass  and  trees  and  singing  birds,  and  that  vast  ter- 
ritory of  four  or  five  acres  around  it  to  give  a  child  the 
sense  that  he  was  born  to  a  noble  principality.  It  has 
been  a  great  pleasure  to  retain  a  certain  hold  upon  it 
for  so  many  years ;  and  since  in  the  natural  course  of 
things  it  must  at  length  pass  into  other  hands,  it  is  a 


30  THE   POET   AT   THE   BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

gratification  to  see  the  old  place  making  itself  tidy  for 
a  new  tenant,  like  some  venerable  dame  who  is  getting 
ready  to  entertain  a  neighbor  of  condition.  Not  long 
since  a  new  cap  of  shingles  adorned  this  ancient 
mother  among  the  village  —  now  city  —  mansions. 
She  has  dressed  herself  in  brighter  colors  than  she  has 
hitherto  worn,  so  they  tell  me,  within  the  last  few 
days.  She  has  modernized  her  aspects  in  several 
ways ;  she  has  rubbed  bright  the  glasses  through  which 
she  looks  at  the  Common  and  the  Colleges ;  and  as  the 
sunsets  shine  upon  her  through  the  flickering  leaves 
or  the  wiry  spray  of  the  elms  I  remember  from  my 
childhood,  they  will  glorify  her  into  the  aspect  she 
wore  when  President  Holyoke,  father  of  our  long  since 
dead  centenarian,  looked  upon  her  in  her  youthful 
comeliness. 

The  quiet  corner  formed  by  this  and  the  neighbor- 
ing residences  has  changed  less  than  any  place  I  can 
remember.  Our  kindly,  polite,  shrewd,  and  humorous 
old  neighbor,  who  in  former  days  has  served  the  town 
as  constable  and  auctioneer,  and  who  bids  fair  to  be- 
come the  oldest  inhabitant  of  the  city,  was  there  when 
I  was  born,  and  is  living  there  to-day.  By  and  by 
the  stony  foot  of  the  great  University  will  plant  itself 
on  this  whole  territory,  and  the  private  recollections 
which  clung  so  tenaciously  and  fondly  to  the  place 
and  its  habitations  will  have  died  with  those  who 
cherished  them. 

Shall  they  ever  live  again  in  the  memory  of  those 
who  loved  them  here  below  ?  What  is  this  life  with- 
out the  poor  accidents  which  made  it  our  own,  and 
by  which  we  identify  ourselves  ?  Ah  me !  I  might  like 
to  be  a  winged  chorister,  but  still  it  seems  to  me  I 
should  hardly  be  quite  happy  if  I  could  not  recall  at 


THE  POET   AT   THE   BKEAKFAST-TABLE.  31 

will  the  Old  House  with  the  Long  Entry,  and  the 
"White  Chamber  (where  I  wrote  the  first  verses  that 
made  me  known,  with  a  pencil,  stans  pede  in  uno, 
pretty  nearly),  and  the  Little  Parlor,  and  the  Study, 
and  the  old  books  in  uniforms  as  varied  as  those  of 
the  Ancient  and  Honorable  Artillery  Company  used 
to  be,  if  my  memory  serves  me  right,  and  the  front 
yard  with  the  Star-of-Bethlehems  growing,  flowerless, 
among  the  grass,  and  the  dear  faces  to  be  seen  no 
more  there  or  anywhere  on  this  earthly  place  of  fare- 
wells. 

I  have  told  my  story.  I  do  not  know  what  special 
gifts  have  been  granted  or  denied  me;  but  this  I 
know,  that  I  am  like  so  many  others  of  my  fellow- 
creatures,  that  when  I  smile,  I  feel  as  if  they  must; 
when  I  cry,  I  think  their  eyes  fill ;  and  it  always  seems 
to  me  that  when  I  am  most  truly  myself  I  come  near- 
est to  them  and  am  surest  of  being  listened  to  by  the 
brothers  and  sisters  of  the  larger  family  into  which 
I  was  born  so  long  ago.  I  have  often  feared  they 
might  be  tired  of  me  and  what  I  tell  them.  But  then, 
perhaps,  would  come  a  letter  from  some  quiet  body  in 
some  out-of-the-way  place,  which  showed  me  that  I 
had  said  something  which  another  had  often  felt  but 
never  said,  or  told  the  secret  of  another's  heart  in  un- 
burdening my  own.  Such  evidences  that  one  is  in  the 
highway  of  human  experience  and  feeling  lighten  the 
footsteps  wonderfully.  So  it  is  that  one  is  encour- 
aged to  go  on  writing  as  long  as  the  world  has  any- 
thing that  interests  him,  for  he  never  knows  how  many 
of  his  fellow-beings  he  may  please  or  profit,  and  in 
how  many  places  his  name  will  be  spoken  as  that  of  a 
friend. 

In  the  mood  suggested  by  my  story  I  have  ventured 


32  THE   POET    AT   THE   BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

on  the  poem  that  follows.  Most  people  love  this  world 
more  than  they  are  willing  to  confess,  and  it  is  hard 
to  conceive  ourselves  weaned  from  it  so  as  to  feel  no 
emotion  at  the  thought  of  its  most  sacred  recollections, 
—  even  after  a  sojourn  of  years,  as  we  should  count 
the  lapse  of  earthly  time,  —  in  the  realm  where,  sooner 
or  later,  all  tears  shall  be  wiped  away.  I  hope,  there- 
fore, the  title  of  my  lines  will  not  frighten  those  who 
are  little  accustomed  to  think  of  men  and  women  as 
human  beings  in  any  state  but  the  present. 


HOMESICK  IN  HEAVEN. 

THE   DIVINE   VOICE. 

Go  seek  thine  earth-born  sisters,  —  thus  the  Voice 
That  all  obey,  —  the  sad  and  silent  three  ; 

These  only,  while  the  hosts  of  heaven  rejoice, 
Smile  never  :  ask  them  what  their  sorrows  be  : 

And  when  the  secret  of  their  griefs  they  tell, 
Look  on  them  with  thy  mild,  half-human  eyes  ; 

Say  what  thou  wast  on  earth  ;  thou  knowest  well ; 
So  shall  they  cease  from  unavailing  sighs. 

THE   ANGEL. 

—  Why  thus,  apart,  —  the  swift- winged  herald  spake, 
Sit  ye  with  silent  lips  and  unstrung  lyres 

While  the  trisagion's  blending  chords  awake 
In  shouts  of  joy  from  all  the  heavenly  choirs  ? 

THE   FIRST   SPIRIT. 

—  Chide  not  thy  sisters,  —  thus  the  answer  came  ;  — 
Children  of  earth,  our  half-weaned  nature  clings 

To  earth's  fond  memories,  and  her  whispered  name 
Untunes  our  quivering  lips,  our  saddened  strings  ; 


THE   POET   AT   THE   BREAKFAST-TABLE.  66 

For  there  we  loved,  and  where  we  love  is  home, 
Home  that  our  feet  may  leave,  but  not  our  hearts, 

Though  o'er  us  shine  the  jasper-lighted  dome  :  — 
The  chain  may  lengthen,  but  it  never  parts  ! 

Sometimes  a  sunlit  sphere  comes  rolling  by, 

And  then  we  softly  whisper,  —  can  it  be  f 
And  leaning  toward  the  silvery  orb,  we  try 

To  hear  the  music  of  its  murmuring  sea  ; 

To  catch,  perchance,  some  flashing  glimpse  of  green, 
Or  breathe  some  wild-wood  fragrance,  wafted  through 

The  opening  gates  of  pearl,  that  fold  between 
The  blinding  splendors  and  the  changeless  blue. 

THE   ANGEL. 

—  Nay,  sister,  nay  !  a  single  healing  leaf 

Plucked  from  the  bough  of  yon  twelve-fruited  tree, 

Would  soothe  such  anguish,  —  deeper  stabbing  grief 
Has  pierced  thy  throbbing  heart  — 

THE   FIRST   SPIRIT. 

—  Ah,  woe  is  me  ! 
I  from  my  clinging  babe  was  rudely  torn  ; 

His  tender  lips  a  loveless  bosom  pressed ; 
Can  I  forget  him  in  my  life  new  born  ? 

O  that  my  darling  lay  upon  my  breast  1 

THE   ANGEL. 

•— Andthou?  — 

THE   SECOND   SPIRIT. 

I  was  a  fair  and  youthful  bride, 
The  kiss  of  love  still  burns  upon  my  cheek, 
He  whom  I  worshipped,  ever  at  my  side,  — 
Him  through  the  spirit  realm  in  vain  I  seek. 

Sweet  faces  turn  their  beaming  eyes  on  mine  ; 

Ah  !  not  in  these  the  wished-for  look  I  read  ; 
Still  for  that  one  dear  human  smile  I  pine  ; 

Thou  and  none  other  !  —  is  the  lover's  creed. 


34  THE  POET   AT   THE   BREAKFAST-TABLE* 

THE   ANGEL. 

—  And  whence  thy  sadness  in  a  world  of  bliss 
Where  never  parting  comes,  nor  mourner's  tear  ? 

Art  thou,  too,  dreaming  of  a  mortal's  kiss 
Amid  the  seraphs  of  the  heavenly  sphere  ? 

THE   THIRD   SPIRIT. 

—Nay,  tax  not  me  with  passion's  wasting  fire  ; 

When  the  swift  message  set  my  spirit  free, 
Blind,  helpless,  lone,  I  left  my  gray-haired  sire  ; 

My  friends  were  many,  he  had  none  save  me. 

I  left  him,  orphaned,  in  the  starless  night ; 

Alas,  for  him  no  cheerful  morning's  dawn  ! 
I  wear  the  ransomed  spirit's  robe  of  white, 

Yet  still  I  hear  him  moaning,  She  is  gone  / 

THE  ANGEL. 

—  Ye  know  me  not,  sweet  sisters  ?  —  All  in  vain 
Ye  seek  your  lost  ones  in  the  shapes  they  wore  ; 

The  flower  once  opened  may  not  bud  again, 
The  fruit  once  fallen  finds  .the  stem  no  more. 

Child,  lover,  sire,  —  yea,  all  things  loved  below,  — 
Fair  pictures  damasked  on  a  vapor's  fold,  — 

Fade  like  the  roseate  flush,  the  golden  glow, 
When  the  bright  curtain  of  the  day  is  rolled. 

/  was  the  babe  that  slumbered  on  thy  breast. 

—  And,  sister,  mine  the  lips  that  called  thee  bride. 

—  Mine  were  the  silvered  locks  thy  hand  caressed, 
That  faithful  hand,  my  faltering  footstep's  guide  ! 

Each  changing  form,  frail  vesture  of  decay, 
The  soul  unclad  forgets  it  once  hath  worn, 

Stained  with  the  travel  of  the  weary  day, 

And  shamed  with  rents  from  every  wayside  thorn. 

To  lie,  an  infant,  in  thy  fond  embrace,  — 

To  come  with  love's  warm  kisses  back  to  thee,  — 


THE   POET   AT   THE   BREAKFAST-TABLE.  35 

To  show  thine  eyes  thy  gray-haired  father's  face, 
Not  Heaven  itself  could  grant ;  this  may  not  be  ! 

Then  spread  your  folded  wings,  and  leave  to  earth 
The  dust  once  breathing  ye  have  mourned  so  long, 

Till  Love,  new  risen,  owns  his  heavenly  birth, 
And  sorrow's  discords  sweeten  into  song  ! 


n. 

I  am  going  to  take  it  for  granted  now  and  hence- 
forth, in  my  report  of  what  was  said  and  what  was  to 
be  seen  at  our  table,  that  I  have  secured  one  good, 
faithful,  loving  reader,  who  never  finds  fault,  who 
never  gets  sleepy  over  my  pages,  whom  no  critic  can 
bully  out  of  a  liking  for  me,  and  to  whom  I  am  always 
safe  in  addressing  myself.  My  one  elect  may  be  man 
or  woman,  old  or  young,  gentle  or  simple,  living  in 
the  next  block  or  on  a  slope  of  Nevada,  my  fellow- 
countryman  or  an  alien ;  but  one  such  reader  I  shall 
assume  to  exist  and  have  always  in  my  thought  when 
I  am  writing. 

A  writer  is  so  like  a  lover !  And  a  talk  with  the 
right  listener  is  so  like  an  arm-in-arm  walk  in  the 
moonlight  with  the  soft  heartbeat  just  felt  through  the 
folds  of  muslin  and  broadcloth!  But  it  takes  very 
little  to  spoil  everything  for  writer,  talker,  lover. 
There  are  a  great  many  cruel  things  besides  poverty 
that  freeze  the  genial  current  of  the  soul,  as  the  poet 
of  the  Elegy  calls  it.  Fire  can  stand  any  wind,  but 
flame  is  easily  blown  out,  and  then  come  smouldering 
and  smoke,  and  profitless,  slow  combustion  without 
the  cheerful  blaze  which  sheds  light  all  round  it.  The 
One  Eeader's  hand  may  shelter  the  flame;  the  one 


36  THE   POET   AT   THE   BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

blessed  ministering  spirit  with  the  vessel  of  oil  may 
keep  it  bright  in  spite  of  the  stream  of  cold  water  on 
the  other  side  doing  its  best  to  put  it  out. 

I  suppose,  if  any  writer,  of  any  distinguishable  in- 
dividuality, could  look  into  the  hearts  of  all  his  read- 
ers, he  might  very  probably  find  one  in  his  parish  of 
a  thousand  or  a  million  who  honestly  preferred  him  to 
any  other  of  his  kind.  I  have  no  doubt  we  have  each 
one  of  us,  somewhere,  our  exact  facsimile,  so  like  us 
in  all  things  except  the  accidents  of  condition,  that 
we  should  love  each  other  like  a  pair  of  twins,  if  our 
natures  could  once  fairly  meet.  I  know  I  have  my 
counterpart  in  some  State  of  this  Union.  I  feel  sure 
that  there  is  an  Englishman  somewhere  precisely  like 
myself.  (I  hope  he  does  not  drop  his  A's,  for  it  does 
not  seem  to  me  possible  that  the  Royal  Dane  could 
have  remained  faithful  to  his  love  for  Ophelia,  if  she 
had  addressed  him  as  'Amlet.)  There  is  also  a  cer- 
tain Monsieur,  to  me  at  this  moment  unknown,  and 
likewise  a  Herr  Von  Something,  each  of  whom  is 
essentially  my  double.  An  Arab  is  at  this  moment 
eating  dates,  a  mandarin  is  just  sipping  his  tea,  and 
a  South- Sea-Islander  (with  undeveloped  possibilities) 
drinking  the  milk  of  a  cocoa-nut,  each  one  of  whom, 
if  he  had  been  born  in  the  gambrel-roofed  house,  and 
cultivated  my  little  sand-patch,  and  grown  up  in  "the 
study"  from  the  height  of  Walton's  Polyglot  Bible 
to  that  of  the  shelf  which  held  the  Elzevir  Tacitus  and 
Casaubon's  Polybius,  with  all  the  complex  influences 
about  him  that  surrounded  me,  would  have  been  so 
nearly  what  I  am  that  I  should  have  loved  him  like  a 
brother,  —  always  provided  that  I  did  not  hate  him 
for  his  resemblance  to  me,  on  the  same  principle  as 
that  which  makes  bodies  in  the  same  electric  condi- 
tion repel  each  other. 


THE   POET   AT   THE    BREAKFAST-TABLE.  37 

For,  perhaps  after  all,  my  One  Reader  is  quite  as 
likely  to  be  not  the  person  most  resembling  myself, 
but  the  one  to  whom  my  nature  is  complementary. 
Just  as  a  particular  soil  wants  some  one  element  to 
fertilize  it,  just  as  the  body  in  some  conditions  has  a 
kind  of  famine  for  one  special  food,  so  the  mind  has 
its  wants,  which  do  not  always  call  for  what  is  best, 
but  which  know  themselves  and  are  as  peremptory  as 
the  salt-sick  sailor's  call  for  a  lemon  or  a  raw  potato, 
or,  if  you  will,  as  those  capricious  "longings,"  which 
have  a  certain  meaning,  we  may  suppose,  and  which 
at  any  rate  we  think  it  reasonable  to  satisfy  if  we  can. 

I  was  going  to  say  something  about  our  boarders 
the  other  day  when  I  got  run  away  with  by  my  local 
reminiscences.  I  wish  you  to  understand  that  we 
have  a  rather  select  company  at  the  table  of  our 
boarding-house. 

Our  Landlady  is  a  most  respectable  person,  who 
has  seen  better  days,  of  course,  —  all  landladies  have, 
—  but  has  also,  I  feel  sure,  seen  a  good  deal  worse 
ones.  For  she  wears  a  very  handsome  silk  dress  on 
state  occasions,  with  a  breastpin  set,  as  I  honestly  be^ 
lieve,  with  genuine  pearls,  and  appears  habitually  with 
a  very  smart  cap,  from  under  which  her  gray  curls  come 
out  with  an  unmistakable  expression,  conveyed  in  the 
hieratic  language  of  the  feminine  priesthood,  to  the 
effect  that  while  there  is  life  there  is  hope.  And 
when  I  come  to  reflect  on  the  many  circumstances 
which  go  to  the  making  of  matrimonial  happiness,  I 
cannot  help  thinking  that  a  personage  of  her  present- 
able exterior,  thoroughly  experienced  in  all  the  do- 
mestic arts  which  render  life  comfortable,  might  make 
the  later  years  of  some  hitherto  companionless  bache- 
lor very  endurable,  not  to  say  pleasant. 


38  THE   POET   AT   THE    BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

The  condition  of  the  Landlady's  family  is,  from 
what  I  learn,  such  as  to  make  the  connection  I  have 
alluded  to,  I  hope  with  delicacy,  desirable  for  inciden- 
tal as  well  as  direct  reasons,  provided  a  fitting  match 
could  be  found.  I  was  startled  at  hearing  her  address 
by  the  familiar  name  of  Benjamin  the  young  physi- 
cian I  have  referred  to,  until  I  found  on  inquiry,  what 
I  might  have  guessed  by  the  size  of  his  slices  of  pie 
and  other  little  marks  of  favoritism,  that  he  was  her 
son.  He  has  recently  come  back  from  Europe,  where 
te  has  topped  off  his  home  training  with  a  first-class 
foreign  finish.  As  the  Landlady  could  never  have 
educated  him  in  this  way  out  of  the  profits  of  keeping 
boarders,  I  was  not  surprised  when  I  was  told  that  she 
had  received  a  pretty  little  property  in  the  form  of  a 
bequest  from  a  former  boarder,  a  very  kind-hearted, 
worthy  old  gentleman  who  had  been  long  with  her  and 
seen  how  hard  she  worked  for  food  and  clothes  for 
herself  and  this  son  of  hers,  Benjamin  Franklin  by 
his  baptismal  name.  Her  daughter  had  also  married 
well,  to  a  member  of  what  we  may  call  the  post-med- 
ical profession,  that,  namely,  which  deals  with  the 
mortal  frame  after  the  practitioners  of  the  healing 
art  have  done  with  it  and  taken  their  leave.  So 
thriving  had  this  son-in-law  of  hers  been  in  his  busi- 
ness, that  his  wife  drove  about  in  her  own  carriage, 
drawn  by  a  pair  of  jet-black  horses  of  most  dignified 
demeanor,  whose  only  fault  was  a  tendency  to  relapse 
at  once  into  a  walk  after  every  application  of  a  stimu- 
lus that  quickened  their  pace  to  a  trot ;  which  appli- 
cation always  caused  them  to  look  round  upon  the 
driver  with  a  surprised  and  offended  air,  as  if  he  had 
been  guilty  of  a  grave  indecorum. 

The  Landlady's  daughter  had  been  blessed  with  a 


THE   POET   AT   THE   BREAKFAST-TABLE.  39 

number  of  children,  of  great  sobriety  of  outward  as- 
pect, but  remarkably  cheerful  in  their  inward  habit 
of  mind,  more  especially  on  the  occasion  of  the  death 
of  a  doll,  which  was  an  almost  daily  occurrence,  and 
gave  them  immense  delight  in  getting  up  a  funeral, 
for  which  they  had  a  complete  miniature  outfit.  How 
happy  they  were  under  their  solemn  aspect !  For  the 
head  mourner,  a  child  of  remarkable  gifts,  could  ac- 
tually make  the  tears  run  down  her  cheeks,  —  as  real 
ones  as  if  she  had  been  a  grown  person  following  a 
rich  relative,  who  had  not  forgotten  his  connections, 
to  his  last  unfurnished  lodgings. 

So  this  was  a  most  desirable  family  connection  for 
the  right  man  to  step  into,  —  a  thriving,  thrifty 
mother-in-law,  who  knew  what  was  good  for  the  sus- 
tenance of  the  body,  and  had  no  doubt  taught  it  to 
her  daughter ;  a  medical  artist  at  hand  in  case  the  lux- 
uries of  the  table  should  happen  to  disturb  the  physi- 
ological harmonies;  and  in  the  worst  event,  a  sweet 
consciousness  that  the  last  sad  offices  would  be  at- 
tended to  with  affectionate  zeal,  and  probably  a  large 
discount  from  the  usual  charges. 

It  seems  as  if  I  could  hardly  be  at  this  table  for  a 
year,  if  I  should  stay  so  long,  without  seeing  some 
romance  or  other  work  itself  out  under  my  eyes ;  and 
I  cannot  help  thinking  that  the  Landlady  is  to  be 
the  heroine  of  the  love-history  like  to  unfold  itself.  I 
think  I  see  the  little  cloud  in  the  horizon,  with  a  sil- 
very lining  to  it,  which  may  end  in  a  rain  of  cards 
tied  round  with  'white  ribbons.  Extremes  meet,  and 
who  so  like  to  be  the  other  party  as  the  elderly  gen- 
tleman at  the  other  end  of  the  table,  as  far  from  her 
now  as  the  length  of  the  board  permits?  I  may  be 
mistaken,  but  I  think  this  is  to  be  the  romantic  epi- 


40  THE   POET   AT    THE   BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

sode  of  the  year  before  me.  Only  it  seems  so  natural 
it  is  improbable,  for  you  never  find  your  dropped 
money  just  where  you  look  for  it,  and  so  it  is  with 
these  a  priori  matches. 

This  gentleman  is  a  tight,  tidy,  wiry  little  man, 
with  a  small,  brisk  head,  close-cropped  white  hair,  a 
good  wholesome  complexion,  a  quiet,  rather  kindly 
face,  quick  in  his  movements,  neat  in  his  dress,  but 
fond  of  wearing  a  short  jacket  over  his  coat,  which 
gives  him  the  look  of  a  pickled  or  preserved  school- 
boy. He  has  retired,  they  say,  from  a  thriving  busi- 
ness, with  a  snug  property,  suspected  by  some  to  be 
rather  more  than  snug,  and  entitling  him  to  be  called 
a  capitalist,  except  that  this  word  seems  to  be  equiva- 
lent to  highway  robber  in  the  new  gospel  of  Saint 
Petroleum.  That  he  is  economical  in  his  habits  can- 
not be  denied,  for  he  saws  and  splits  his  own  wood,  — 
for  exercise,  he  says,  —  and  makes  his  own  fires, 
brushes  his  own  shoes,  and,  it  is  whispered,  darns  a 
hole  in  a  stocking  now  and  then,  —  all  for  exercise, 
I  suppose.  Every  summer  he  goes  out  of  town  for 
a  few  weeks.  On  a  given  day  of  the  month  a  wagon 
stops  at  the  door  and  takes  up,  not  his  trunks,  for  he 
does  not  indulge  in  any  such  extravagance,  but  the 
stout  brown  linen  bags  in  which  he  packs  the  few  con- 
veniences he  carries  with  him. 

I  do  not  think  this  worthy  and  economical  person- 
age will  have  much  to  do  or  to  say,  unless  he  marries 
the  Landlady.  If  he  does  that,  he  will  play  a  part  of 
some  importance,  —  but  I  don't  feel  sure  at  all.  His 
talk  is  little  in  amount,  and  generally  ends  in  some 
compact  formula  condensing  much  wisdom  in  few 
words,  as  that  a  man  should  not  put  all  his  eggs  in 
one  basket ;  that  there  are  as  good  fish  in  the  sea  as 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BKEAKF AST-TABLE.      41 

ever  came  out  of  it ;  and  one  in  particular,  which  he 
surprised  me  by  saying  in  pretty  good  French  one 
day,  to  the  effect  that  the  inheritance,  of  the  world 
belongs  to  the  phlegmatic  people,  which  seems  to  me  to 
have  a  good  deal  of  truth  in  it. 

The  other  elderly  personage,  the  old  man  with 
iron-gray  hair  and  large  round  spectacles,  sits  at  my 
right  at  table.  He  is  a  retired  college  officer,  a  man 
of  books  and  observation,  and  himself  an  author. 
Magister  Artium  is  one  of  his  titles  on  the  College 
Catalogue,  and  I  like  best  to  speak  of  him  as  the 
Master,  because  he  has  a  certain  air  of  authority 
which  none  of  us  feel  inclined  to  dispute.  He  has 
given  me  a  copy  of  a  work  of  his  which  seems  to  me 
not  wanting  in  suggestiveness,  and  which  I  hope  I 
shall  be  able  to  make  some  use  of  in  my  records  by 
and  by.  I  said  the  ether  day  that  he  had  good  solid 
prejudices,  which  is  true,  and  I  like  him  none  the 
worse  for  it;  but  he  has  also  opinions  more  or  less 
original,  valuable,  probable,  fanciful;  fantastic,  or 
whimsical,  perhaps,  now  and  then ;  which  he  promul- 
gates at  table  somewhat  in  the  tone  of  imperial  edicts. 
Another  thing  I  like  about  him  is,  that  he  takes  a 
certain  intelligent  interest  in  pretty  much  everything 
that  interests  other  people.  I  asked  him  the  other 
day  what  he  thought  most  about  in  his  wide  range  of 
studies. 

—  Sir,  —  said  he,  —  I  take  stock  in  everything  that 
concerns  anybody.     Humani  nihil^  —  you  know  the 
rest.      But  if  you  ask  me  what   is  my  specialty,  I 
should  say,  I  applied  myself  more  particularly  to  the 
contemplation  of  the  Order  of  Things. 

—  A  pretty  wide  subject,  —  I  ventured  to  suggest. 
- —  Not  wide  enough,  sir,  —  not  wide  enough  to  sat- 


42  THE  POET   AT  THE   BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

isfy  the  desire  of  a  mind  which  wants  to  get  at  abso- 
lute truth,  without  reference  to  the  empirical  arrange- 
ments of  our  particular  planet  and  its  environments. 
I  want  to  subject  the  formal  conditions  of  space  and 
time  to  a  new  analysis,  and  project  a  possible  universe 
outside  of  the  Order  of  Things.  But  I  have  nar- 
rowed  myself  by  studying  the  actual  facts  of  being. 
By  and  by  —  by  and  by  —  perhaps  —  perhaps.  I 
hope  to  do  some  sound  thinking  in  heaven  —  if  I  ever 
get  there,  —  he  said  seriously,  and  it  seemed  to  me 
not  irreverently. 

—  I  rather  like  that,  —  I  said.     I  think  your  tele- 
scopic people  are,  on  the  whole,  more  satisfactory  than 
your  microscopic  ones. 

[ —  My  left-hand  neighbor  fidgeted  about  a  little  in 
his  chair  as  I  said  this.  But  the  young  man  sitting 
not  far  from  the  Landlady,  to  whom  my  attention  had 
been  attracted  by  the  expression  of  his  eyes,  which 
seemed  as  if  they  saw  nothing  before  him,  but  looked 
beyond  everything,  smiled  a  sort  of  faint  starlight 
smile,  that  touched  me  strangely;  for  until  that  mo- 
ment he  had  appeared  as  if  his  thoughts  were  far 
away,  and  I  had  been  questioning  whether  he  had 
lost  friends  lately,  or  perhaps  had  never  had  them, 
he  seemed  so  remote  from  our  boarding-house  life. 
I  will  inquire  about  him,  for  he  interests  me,  and  I 
thought  he  seemed  interested  as  I  went  on  talking.] 

—  No,  — I  continued,  — I  don't  want  to  have  the 
territory  of  a  man's  mind  fenced  in.     I  don't  want  to 
shut  out  the  mystery  of  the  stars  and  the  awful  hollow 
that  holds  them.     We  have  done  with  those  hypaethral 
temples,  that  were  open  above  to  the  heavens,  but  we 
can  have  attics  and  skylights  to  them.     Minds  with 
skylights, — yes, — stop,  let    us  see  if  we  can't  get 
something  out  of  that. 


THE   POET   AT   THE   BREAKFAST-TABLE.  43 

One-story  intellects,  two -story  intellects,  three  - 
story  intellects  with  skylights.  All  fact  -  collectors, 
who  have  no  aim  beyond  their  facts,  are  one-story 
men.  Two-story  men  compare,  reason,  generalize,  us- 
ing the  labors  of  the  fact-collectors  as  well  as  their 
own.  Three-story  men  idealize,  imagine,  predict; 
their  best  illumination  comes  from  above,  through 
the  skylight.  There  are  minds  with  large  ground- 
floors,  that  can  store  an  infinite  amount  of  knowledge ; 
some  librarians,  for  instance,  who  know  enough  of 
books  to  help  other  people,  without  being  able  to  make 
much  other  use  of  their  knowledge,  have  intellects  of 
this  class.  Your  great  working  lawyer  has  two  spa- 
cious stories;  his  mind  is  clear,  because  his  mental 
floors  are  large,  and  he  has  room  to  arrange  his 
thoughts  so  that  he  can  get  at  them,  —  facts  below, 
principles  above,  and  all  in  ordered  series;  poets  are 
often  narrow  below,  incapable  of  clear  statement,  and 
with  small  power  of  consecutive  reasoning,  but  full  of 
light,  if  sometimes  rather  bare  of  furniture,  in  the 
attics. 

—  The  old  Master  smiled.     I  think  he  suspects  him- 
self of  a  three-story  intellect,  and  I  don't  feel  sure 
that  he  is  n't  right. 

—  Is  it  dark  meat  or  white  meat  you  will  be  helped 
to?  —  said  the  Landlady,  addressing  the  Master. 

—  Dark    meat    for    me,    always,  — he   answered. 
Then  turning  to  me,  he  began  one  of  those  monologues 
of  his,   such  as  that  which  put  the  Member  of  ths 
Haouse  asleep  the  other  day. 

—  It's  pretty  much  the  same  in  men  and  women 
and  in  books  and  everything,  that  it  is  in  turkeys  and 
chickens.     Why,  take  your  poets,  now,  say  Browning 


44  THE   POET   AT   THE   BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

and  Tennyson.  Don't  you  think  you  can  say  which 
is  the  dark-meat  and  which  is  the  white-meat  poet? 
And  so  of  the  people  you  know;  can't  you  pick  out 
the  full-flavored,  coarse-fibred  characters  from  the 
delicate,  fine-fibred  ones?  And  in  the  same  person, 
don't  you  know  the  same  two  shades  in  different  parts 
of  the  character  that  you  find  in  the  wing  and  thigh 
of  a  partridge  ?  I  suppose  you  poets  may  like  white 
meat  best,  very  probably;  you  had  rather  have  a  wing 
than  a  drumstick,  I  dare  say. 

—  Why,  yes,  —  said  I,  —  I  suppose  some  of  us  do. 
Perhaps  it  is  because  a  bird  flies  with  his  white-fleshed 
limbs  and  walks  with  the.  dark-fleshed  ones.  Besides, 
the  wing-muscles  are  nearer  the  heart  than  the  leg- 
muscles. 

I  thought  that  sounded  mighty  pretty,  and  paused 
a  moment  to  pat  myself  on  the  back,  as  is  my  wont 
when  I  say  something  that  I  think  of  superior  quality. 
So  I  lost  my  innings ;  for  the  Master  is  apt  to  strike 
in  at  the  end  of  a  bar,  instead  of  waiting  for  a  rest, 
if  I  may  borrow  a  musical  phrase.  No  matter,  just 
at  this  moment,  what  he  said;  but  he  talked  the 
Member  of  the  Haouse  asleep  again. 

They  have  a  new  term  nowadays  (I  am  speaking  to 
you,  the  Reader)  for  people  that  do  a  good  deal  of 
talking;  they  call  them  "conversationists,"  or  "con- 
versationalists"; talkists,  I  suppose,  would  do  just  as 
well.  It  is  rather  dangerous  to  get  the  name  of  being 
one  of  these  phenomenal  manifestations,  as  one  is  ex- 
pected to  say  something  remarkable  every  time  one 
opens  one's  mouth  in  company.  It  seems  hard  not  to 
be  able  to  ask  for  a  piece  of  bread  or  a  tumbler  of 
water,  without  a  sensation  running  round  the  table, 
as  if  one  were  an  electric  eel  or  a  torpedo,  and  could  n't 


THE  POET   AT  THE   BREAKFAST-TABLE.  45 

be  touched  without  giving  a  shock.  A  fellow  is  n't 
all  battery,  is  he?  The  idea  that  a  Gymnotus  can't 
swallow  his  worm  without  a  coruscation  of  animal 
lightning  is  hard  on  that  brilliant  but  sensational 
being.  Good  talk  is  not  a  matter  of  will  at  all;  it 
depends  —  you  know  we  are  all  half -materialists  now- 
adays —  on  a  certain  amount  of  active  congestion  of 
the  brain,  and  that  comes  when  it  is  ready,  and  not 
before.  I  saw  a  man  get  up  the  other  day  in  a  plea- 
sant company,  and  talk  away  for  about  five  minutes, 
evidently  by  a  pure  effort  of  will.  His  person  was 
good,  his  voice  was  pleasant,  but  anybody  could  see 
that  it  was  all  mechanical  labor ;  he  was  sparring  for 
wind,  as  the  Hon.  John  Morrissey,  M.  C.,  would 
express  himself.  Presently,  — 

Do  you,  —  Beloved,  I  am  afraid  you  are  not  old 
enough,  —  but  do  you  remember  the  days  of  the  tin 
tinder-box,  the  flint,  and  steel?  Click!  click!  click! 
—  Ah-h-h!  knuckles  that  time!  click!  click!  CLICK! 
a  spark  has  taken,  and  is  eating  into  the  black  tinder, 
as  a  six-year-old  eats  into  a  sheet  of  gingerbread. 

Presently,  after  hammering  away  for  his  five  min- 
utes with  mere  words,  the  spark  of  a  happy  expression 
took  somewhere  among  the  mental  combustibles,  and 
then  for  ten  minutes  we  had  a  pretty,  wandering, 
scintillating  play  of  eloquent  thought,  that  enlivened, 
if  it  did  not  kindle,  all  around  it.  If  you  want  the 
real  philosophy  of  it,  I  will  give  it  to  you.  The 
chance  thought  or  expression  struck  the  nervous  cen- 
tre of  consciousness,  as  the  rowel  of  a  spur  stings  the 
flank  of  a  racer.  Away  through  all  the  telegraphic 
radiations  of  the  nervous  cords  flashed  the  intelligence 
that  the  brain  was  kindling,  and  must  be  fed  with 
something  or  other,  or  it  would  burn  itself  to  ashes. 


46  THE   POET   AT   THE   BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

And  all  the  great  hydraulic  engines  poured  in  their 
scarlet  blood,  and  the  fire  kindled,  and  the  flame  rose ; 
for  the  blood  is  a  stream  that,  like  burning  rock-oil, 
at  once  kindles,  and  is  itself  the  fuel.  You  can't 
order  these  organic  processes,  any  more  than  a  milli- 
ner can  make  a  rose.  She  can  make  something  that 
looks  like  a  rose,  more  or  less,  but  it  takes  all  the 
forces  of  the  universe  to  finish  and  sweeten  that 
blossom  in  your  button-hole;  and  you  may  be  sure 
that  when  the  orator's  brain  is  in  a  flame,  when  the 
poet's  heart  is  in  a  tumult,  it  is  something  mightier 
than  he  and  his  will  that  is  dealing  with  him !  As  I 
have  looked  from  one  of  the  northern  windows  of  the 
street  which  commands  our  noble  estuary,  —  the  view 
through  which  is  a  picture  on  an  illimitable  canvas  and 
a  poem  in  innumerable  cantos,  —  I  have  sometimes 
seen  a  pleasure-boat  drifting  along,  her  sail  flapping, 
and  she  seeming  as  if  she  had  neither  will  nor  aim. 
At  her  stern  a  man  was  laboring  to  bring  her  head 
round  with  an  oar,  to  little  purpose,  as  it  seemed  to 
those  who  watched  him  pulling  and  tugging.  But  all 
at  once  the  wind  of  heaven,  which  had  wandered  all 
the  way  from  Florida  or  from  Labrador,  it  may  be, 
struck  full  upon  the  sail,  and  it  swelled  and  rounded 
itself,  like  a  white  bosom  that  had  burst  its  bodice, 
and  — 

—  You  are  right;  it  is  too  true!  but  how  I  love 
these  pretty  phrases !  I  am  afraid  I  am  becoming  an 
epicure  in  words,  which  is  a  bad  thing  to  be,  unless  it 
is  dominated  by  something  infinitely  better  than  itself. 
But  there  is  a  fascination  in  the  mere  sound  of  articu- 
lated breath ;  of  consonants  that  resist  with  the  firm- 
ness of  a  maid  of  honor,  or  half  or  wholly  yield  to  the 
wooing  lips;  of  vowels  that  flow  and  murmur,  each 


THE   POET   AT   THE    BREAKFAST-TABLE.  47 

after  its  kind;  the  peremptory  5  and  p,  the  brittle  &, 
the  vibrating  r,  the  insinuating  s,  the  feathery  f,  the 
velvety  ^,  the  bell- voiced  m,  the  tranquil  broad  a,  the 
penetrating  e,  the  cooing  w,  the  emotional  o,  and  the 
beautiful  combinations  of  alternate  rock  and  stream, 
as  it  were,  that  they  give  to  the  rippling  flow  of 
speech,  —  there  is  a  fascination  in  the  skilful  hand- 
ling of  these,  which  the  great  poets  and  even  prose- 
writers  have  not  disdained  to  acknowledge  and  use  to 
recommend  their  thought.  What  do  you  say  to  this 
line  of  Homer  as  a  piece  of  poetical  full-band  music  ? 
I  know  you  read  the  Greek  characters  with  perfect 
ease,  but  permit  me,  just  for  my  own  satisfaction,  to 
put  it  into  English  letters :  — 

Aigle  pamphanoosa  di'  aitheros  ouranon  ike  ! 
as  if  he  should  have  spoken  in  our  poorer  phrase  of 
Splendor  far  shining  through  ether  to  heaven  ascending. 

That  Greek  line,  which  I  do  not  remember  having 
heard  mention  of  as  remarkable,  has  nearly  every  con- 
sonantal and  vowel  sound  in  the  language.  Try  it  by 
the  Greek  and  by  the  English  alphabet;  it  is  a  curi- 
osity. Tell  me  that  old  Homer  did  not  roll  his  sight- 
less eyeballs  about  with  delight,  as  he  thundered  out 
these  ringing  syllables!  It  seems  hard  to  think  of 
his  going  round  like  a  hand-organ  man,  with  such 
music  and  such  thought  as  his  to  earn  his  bread  with. 
One  can't  help  wishing  that  Mr.  Pugh  could  have  got 
at  him  for  a  single  lecture,  at  least,  of  the  "Star 
Course,"  or  that  he  could  have  appeared  in  the  Music 
Hall,  "for  this  night  only." 

—  I  know  I  have  rambled,  but  I  hope  you  see  that 
this  is  a  delicate  way  of  letting  you  into  the  nature  of 
the  individual  who  is,  officially,  the  principal  person- 


48  THE   POET   AT   THE   BEE AKF AST-TABLE. 

age  at  our  table.  It  would  hardly  do  to  describe  him 
directly,  you  know.  But  you  must  not  think,  because 
the  lightning  zigzags,  it  does  not  know  where  to  strike. 
I  shall  try  to  go  through  the  rest  of  my  description 
of  our  boarders  with  as  little  of  digression  as  is  con- 
sistent with  my  nature.  I  think  we  have  a  somewhat 
exceptional  company.  Since  our  Landlady  has  got 
up  in  the  world,  her  board  has  been  decidedly  a  fa- 
vorite with  persons  a  little  above  the  average  in  point 
of  intelligence  and  education.  In  fact,  ever  since  a 
boarder  of  hers,  not  wholly  unknown  to  the  reading 
public,  brought  her  establishment  into  notice,  it  has 
attracted  a  considerable  number  of  literary  and  scien- 
tific people,  and  now  and  then  a  politician,  like  the 
Member  of  the  House  of  Representatives,  otherwise 
called  the  Great  and  General  Court  of  the  State  of 
Massachusetts.  The  consequence  is,  that  there  is 
more  individuality  of  character  than  in  a  good  many 
similar  boarding-houses,  where  all  are  business-men, 
engrossed  in  the  same  pursuit  of  money-making,  or 
all  are  engaged  in  politics,  and  so  deeply  occupied 
with  the  welfare  of  the  community  that  they  can  think 
and  talk  of  little  else. 

At  my  left  hand  sits  as  singular-looking  a  human 
being  as  I  remember  seeing  outside  of  a  regular  mu- 
seum or  tent-show.  His  black  coat  shines  as  if  it  had 
been  polished;  and  it  has  been  polished  on  the  wear- 
er's back,  no  doubt,  for  the  arms  and  other  points 
of  maximum  attrition  are  particularly  smooth  and 
bright.  Round  shoulders,  —  stooping  over  some  mi- 
nute labor,  I  suppose.  Very  slender  limbs,  with  bends 
like  a  grasshopper's;  sits  a  great  deal,  I  presume; 
looks  as  if  he  might  straighten  them  out  all  of  a  sud- 


THE  POET   AT   THE   BREAKFAST-TABLE.  49 

den,  and  jump  instead  of  walking.  Wears  goggles 
very  commonly;  says  it  rests  his  eyes,  which  he 
strains  in  looking  at  very  small  objects.  Voice  has  a 
dry  creak,  as  if  made  by  some  small  piece  of  mechan- 
ism that  wanted  oiling.  I  don't  think  he  is  a  botan- 
ist, for  he  does  not  smell  of  dried  herbs,  but  carries 
a  camphorated  atmosphere  about  with  him,  as  if  to 
keep  the  moths  from  attacking  him.  I  must  find  out 
what  is  his  particular  interest.  One  ought  to  know 
something  about  his  immediate  neighbors  at  the  table. 
This  is  what  I  said  to  myself,  before  opening  a  con- 
versation with  him.  Everybody  in  our  ward  of  the 
city  was  in  a  great  stir  about  a  certain  election,  and  I 
thought  I  might  as  well  begin  with  that  as  anything. 

—  How  do  you  think  the  vote  is  likely  to  go  to- 
morrow?—  I  said. 

—  It  isn't  to-morrow,  — he  answered,  — it 's  next 
month. 

—  Next  month !  —  said  I.  —  Why,  what  election  do 
you  mean  ? 

—  I  mean  the  election  to  the  Presidency  of  the  En- 
tomological Society,  sir,  —  he  creaked,  with  an  air  of 
surprise,  as  if  nobody  could  by  any  possibility  have 
been  thinking  of  any  other.     Great  competition,  sir, 
between  the  dipterists   and  the   lepidopterists   as  to 
which   shall  get   in  their   candidate.     Several  close 
ballotings  already;  adjourned  for  a  fortnight.     Poor 
concerns,  both  of  'em.     Wait  till  our  turn  comes. 

—  I  suppose   you   are   an   entomologist?  —  I  said 
with  a  note  of  interrogation. 

—  Not  quite  so  ambitious  as  that,  sir.     I  should 
like  to  put  my  eyes  on  the  individual  entitled  to  that 
name!     A  society  may  call  itself  an  Entomological 
Society,  but  the  man  who  arrogates  such  a  broad  title 


50  THE   POET    AT    THE    BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

as  that  to  himself,  in  the  present  state  of  science,  is  a 
pretender,  sir,  a  dilettante,  an  impostor!  No  man 
can  be  truly  called  an  entomologist,  sir;  the  subject 
is  too  vast  for  any  single  human  intelligence  to  grasp. 

—  May  I  venture  to  ask,  —  I  said,  a  little  awed  by 
his  statement  and  manner,  —  what  is  your  special  pro- 
vince of  study? 

I  am  often  spoken  of  as  a  Coleopterist,  —  he  said, 

—  but  I  have  no  right  to  so  comprehensive  a  name. 
The  genus  Scarabseus  is  what  I  have  chiefly  confined 
myself  to,  and  ought  to  have  studied  exclusively.    The 
beetles  proper  are  quite  enough  for  the  labor  of  one 
man's  life.     Call  me  a  Scarabeeist  if  you  will;  if  I 
can  prove  myself  worthy  of  that  name,  my  highest 
ambition  will  be  more  than  satisfied. 

I  think,  by  way  of  compromise  and  convenience,  I 
shall  call  him  the  Scarabee.  He  has  come  to  look 
wonderfully  like  those  creatures,  —  the  beetles,  I  mean, 
- —  by  being  so  much  among  them.  His  room  is  hung 
round  with  cases  of  them,  each  impaled  on  a  pin 
driven  through  him,  something  as  they  used  to  bury 
suicides.  These  cases  take  the  place  for  him  of  pic- 
tures and  all  other  ornaments.  That  Boy  steals  into 
his  room  sometimes,  and  stares  at  them  with  great  ad- 
miration, and  has  himself  undertaken  to  form  a  rival 
cabinet,  chiefly  consisting  of  flies,  so  far,  arranged  in 
ranks  superintended  by  an  occasional  spider. 

The  old  Master,  who  is  a  bachelor,  has  a  kindly 
feeling  for  this  little  monkey,  and  those  of  his  kind. 

—  I  like  children,  —  he  said  to  me  one  day  at  table, 

—  I  like  'em,  and  I  respect  'em.     Pretty  much  all  the 
honest  truth-telling  there  is  in  the  world  is  done  by 
them.     Do  you  know  they  play  the  part  in  the  house- 
hold which  the  king's  jester,  who  very  often  had  a 


THE   POET   AT   THE   BREAKFAST-TABLE.  51 

mighty  long  head  under  his  cap  and  bells,  used  to 
play  for  a  monarch?  There  's  no  radical  club  like  a 
nest  of  little  folks  in  a  nursery.  Did  you  ever  watch 
a  baby's  fingers?  I  have,  often  enough,  though  I 
never  knew  what  it  was  to  own  one.  —  The  Master 
paused  half  a  minute  or  so,  —  sighed,  —  perhaps  at 
thinking  what  he  had  missed  in  life,  —  looked  up  at 
me  a  little  vacantly.  I  saw  what  was  the  matter;  he 
had  lost  the  thread  of  his  talk. 

—  Baby's  fingers,  —  I  intercalated. 

—  Yes,  yes ;    did  you  ever  see  how  they  will  poke 
those  wonderful  little  fingers  of  theirs  into  every  fold 
and  crack  and  crevice  they  can  get  at?     That  is  their 
first  education,  feeling  their  way  into  the  solid  facts 
of  the  material  world.     When  they  begin  to  talk  it  is 
the  same  thing  over  again  in  another  shape.     If  there 
is  a  crack  or  a  flaw  in  your  answer  to  their  confounded 
shoulder-hitting  questions,  they  will  poke  and  poke 
until  they  have  got  it  gaping  just  as  the  baby's  fin- 
gers have  made  a  rent  out  of  that  atom  of  a  hole  in 
his  pinafore  that  your  old  eyes  never  took  notice  of. 
Then  they  make  such  fools  of  us  by  copying  on  a 
small  scale  what  we  do  in  the  grand  manner.     I  won- 
der if  it  ever  occurs  to  our  dried-up  neighbor  there 
to  ask  himself  whether  That  Boy's  collection  of  flies 
is  n't  about  as  significant  in  the  Order  of  Things  as 
his  own  Museum  of  Beetles? 

—  I   could  n't    help   thinking   that   perhaps   That 
Boy's  questions  about  the  simpler  mysteries  of  life 
might  have  a  good  deal  of  the  same  kind  of  significance 
as  the  Master's  inquiries  into  the  Order  of  Things. 

—  On  my  left,  beyond  my  next  neighbor  the  Scar- 
abee,  at  the  end  of  the  table,  sits  a  person  of  whom 


52  THE   POET   AT   THE   BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

we  know  little,  except  that  he  carries  about  him 
more  palpable  reminiscences  of  tobacco  and  the  allied 
sources  of  comfort  than  a  very  sensitive  organization 
might  find  acceptable.  The  Master  does  not  seem  to 
like  him  much,  for  some  reason  or  other,  —  perhaps 
he  has  a  special  aversion  to  the  odor  of  tobacco.  As 
his  forefinger  shows  a  little  too  distinctly  that  he  uses 
a  pen,  I  shall  compliment  him  by  calling  him  the  Man 
of  Letters,  until  I  find  out  more  about  him. 

—  The  Young  Girl  who  sits  on  my  right,  next  be- 
yond the  Master,  can  hardly  be  more  than  nineteen 
or  twenty  years  old.  I  wish  I  could  paint  her  so  as 
to  interest  others  as  much  as  she  does  me.  But  she 
has  not  a  profusion  of  sunny  tresses  wreathing  a  neck 
of  alabaster,  and  a  cheek  where  the  rose  and  the  lily 
are  trying  to  settle  their  old  quarrel  with  alternating 
victory.  Her  hair  is  brown,  her  cheek  is  delicately 
pallid,  her  forehead  is  too  ample  for  a  ball-room 
beauty's.  A  single  faint  line  between  the  eyebrows 
is  the  record  of  long  -  continued  anxious  efforts  to 
please  in  the  task  she  has  chosen,  or  rather  which  has 
been  forced  upon  her.  It  is  the  same  line  of  anxious 
and  conscientious  effort  which  I  saw  not  long  since  on 
the  forehead  of  one  of  the  sweetest  and  truest  singers 
who  has  visited  us ;  the  same  which  is  so  striking  on 
the  masks  of  singing  women  painted  upon  the  facade 
of  our  Great  Organ,  —  that  Himalayan  home  of  har= 
mony  which  you  are  to  see  and  then  die,  if  you  don't 
live  where  you  can  see  and  hear  it  often.  Many 
deaths  have  happened  in  a  neighboring  large  city 
from  that  well-known  complaint,  Icterus  Invidioso- 
rum,  after  returning  from  a  visit  to  the  Music  Hall. 
The  invariable  symptom  of  a  fatal  attack  is  the  Risua 


THE   POET   AT   THE    BREAKFAST-TABLE.  58 

Sardonicus.  —  But  the  Young  Girl.  She  gets  her 
living  by  writing  stories  for  a  newspaper.  Every 
week  she  furnishes  a  new  story.  If  her  head  aches 
or  her  heart  is  heavy,  so  that  she  does  not  come  to 
time  with  her  story,  she  falls  behindhand  and  has  to 
live  on  credit.  It  sounds  well  enough  to  say  that 
"she  supports  herself  by  her  pen,"  but  her  lot  is  a 
trying  one;  it  repeats  the  doom  of  the  Danaides. 
The  "Weekly  Bucket"  has  no  bottom,  and  it  is  her 
business  to  help  fill  it.  Imagine  for  one  moment 
what  it  is  to  tell  a  tale  that  must  flow  on,  flow  ever, 
without  pausing ;  the  lover  miserable  and  happy  this 
week,  to  begin  miserable  again  next  week  and  end  as 
before;  the  villain  scowling,  plotting,  punished;  to 
scowl,  plot,  and  get  punished  again  in  our  next;  an 
endless  series  of  woes  and  blisses,  into  each  paragraph 
of  which  the  forlorn  artist  has  to  throw  all  the  live- 
]iness,  all  the  emotion,  all  the  graces  of  style  she  is 
mistress  of,  for  the  wages  of  a  maid  of  all  work,  and 
no  more  recognition  or  thanks  from  anybody  than  the 
apprentice  who  sets  the  types  for  the  paper  that 
prints  her  ever-ending  and  ever-beginning  stories. 
And  yet  she  has  a  pretty  talent,  sensibility,  a  natural 
way  of  writing,  an  ear  for  the  music  of  verse,  in  which 
she  sometimes  indulges  to  vary  the  dead  monotony  of 
everlasting  narrative,  and  a  sufficient  amount  of  in* 
vention  to  make  her  stories  readable.  I  have  found 
my  eyes  dimmed  over  them  oftener  than  once,  more 
with  thinking  about  her,  perhaps,  than  about  her 
heroes  and  heroines.  Poor  little  body!  Poor  little 
mind!  Poor  little  soul!  She  is  one  of  that  great 
company  of  delicate,  intelligent,  emotional  young 
creatures,  who  are  waiting,  like  that  sail  I  spoke  of, 
for  some  breath  of  heaven  to  fill  their  white  bosoms, 


54  THE   POET   AT    THE   BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

—  love,  the  right  of  every  woman ;  religious  emotion, 
sister  of  love,  with  the  same  passionate  eyes,  but 
cold,  thin,  bloodless  hands,  —  some  enthusiasm  of  hu- 
manity or  divinity;  and  find  that  life  offers  them, 
instead,  a  seat  on  a  wooden  bench,  a  chain  to  fasten 
them  to  it,  and  a  heavy  oar  to  pull  day  and  night. 
We  read  the  Arabian  tales  and  pity  the  doomed  lady 
who  must  amuse  her  lord  and  master  from  day  to  day 
or  have  her  head  cut  off;  how  much  better  is  a  mouth 
without  bread  to  fill  it  than  no  mouth  at  all  to  fill, 
because  no  head  ?  We  have  all  round  us  a  weary- 
eyed  company  of  Scheherezades !  This  is  one  of  them, 
and  I  may  call  her  by  that  name  when  it  pleases  me 
to  do  so. 

The  next  boarder  I  have  to  mention  is  the  one  who 
sits  between  the  Young  Girl  and  the  Landlady.  In  a 
little  chamber  into  which  a  small  thread  of  sunshine 
finds  its  way  for  half  an  hour  or  so  every  day  during 
a  month  or  six  weeks  of  the  spring  or  autumn,  at  all 
other  times  obliged  to  content  itself  with  ungilded 
daylight,  lives  this  boarder,  whom,  without  wronging 
any  others  of  our  company,  I  may  call,  as  she  is  very 
generally  called  in  the  household,  The  Lady.  In  giv- 
ing her  this  name  it  is  not  meant  that  there  are  no 
other  ladies  at  our  table,  or  that  the  handmaids  who 
serve  us  are  not  ladies,  or  to  deny  the  general  propo- 
sition that  everybody  who  wears  the  unbif  urcated  gar- 
ment is  entitled  to  that  appellation.  Only  this  lady 
has  a  look  and  manner  which  there  is  no  mistaking  as 
belonging  to  a  person  always  accustomed  to  refined 
and  elegant  society.  Her  style  is  perhaps  a  little 
more  courtly  and  gracious  than  some  would  like.  The 
language  and  manner  which  betray  the  habitual  de- 


THE   POET   AT   THE   BREAKFAST-TABLE.  55 

sire  of  pleasing,  and  which  add  a  charm  to  intercourse 
in  the  higher  social  circles,  are  liable  to  be  construed 
by  sensitive  beings  unused  to  such  amenities  as  an  odi- 
ous condescension  when  addressed  to  persons  of  less 
consideration  than  the  accused,  and  as  a  still  more 
odious  —  you  know  the  word  —  when  directed  to  those 
who  are  esteemed  by  the  world  as  considerable  person- 
ages. But  of  all  this  the  accused  are  fortunately 
wholly  unconscious,  for  there  is  nothing  so  entirely 
natural  and  unaffected  as  the  highest  breeding. 

From  an  aspect  of  dignified  but  undisguised  econ- 
omy which  showed  itself  in  her  dress  as  well  as  in  her 
limited  quarters,  I  suspected  a  story  of  shipwrecked 
fortune,  and  determined  to  question  our  Landlady. 
That  worthy  woman  was  delighted  to  tell  the  history 
of  her  most  distinguished  boarder.  She  was,  as  I  had 
supposed,  a  gentlewoman  whom  a  change  of  circum- 
stances had  brought  down  from  her  high  estate. 

—  Did  I  know  the  Goldenrod  family  ?  —  Of  course 
I  did.  —  Well,  the    Lady  was   first  cousin   to  Mrs. 
Midas  Goldenrod.     She  had  been  here  in  her  car- 
riage to  call  upon  her,  —  not  very  often.  —  Were  her 
rich  relations  kind  and  helpful    to  her?  —  Well, — 
yes ;  at  least  they  made  her  presents  now  and  then. 
Three  or  four  years  ago  they  sent  her  a  silver  waiter, 
and  every  Christmas  they  sent  her  a  boquet,  —  it  must 
cost  as  much  as  five  dollars,  the  Landlady  thought. 

—  And  how  did  the  Lady  receive  these  valuable  and 
useful  gifts  ? 

—  Every  Christmas  she  got  out  the  silver  waiter 
and  borrowed  a  glass  tumbler  and  filled  it  with  water, 
and  put  the  boquet  in  it  and  set  it  on  the  waiter.     It 
smelt  sweet  enough  and  looked  pretty  for  a  day  or 
two,  but  the  Landlady  thought  it  wouldn't  have  hurt 


56  THE   POET   AT   THE   BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

'em  if  they  'd  sent  a  piece  of  goods  for  a  dress,  or 
at  least  a  pocket-handkercher  or  two,  or  something  or 
other  that  she  could  'a'  made  some  kind  of  use  of;  but 
beggars  mustn't  be  choosers;  not  that  she  was  a  beg- 
gar, for  she  'd  sooner  die  than  do  that  if  she  was  in 
want  of  a  meal  of  victuals.  There  was  a  lady  I  re- 
member, and  she  had  a  little  boy  and  she  was  a 
widow,  and  after  she  'd  buried  her  husband  she  was 
dreadful  poor,  and  she  was  ashamed  to  let  her  little 
boy  go  out  in  his  old  shoes,  and  copper-toed  shoes 
they  was  too,  because  his  poor  little  ten  —  toes  —  was 
a  coming  out  of  'em;  and  what  do  you  think  my  hus- 
band's rich  uncle, — well,  there  now,  it  was  me  and 
my  little  Benjamin,  as  he  was  then,  there  's  no  use  in 
hiding  of  it,  —  and  what  do  you  think  my  husband's 
uncle  sent  me  but  a  plaster  of  Paris  image  of  a  young 
woman,  that  was,  —  well,  her  appearance  was  n't  re- 
spectable, and  I  had  to  take  and  wrap  her  up  in  a 
towel  and  poke  her  right  into  my  closet,  and  there 
she  stayed  till  she  got  her  head  broke  and  served  her 
right,  for  she  was  n't  fit  to  show  folks.  You  need  n't 
say  anything  about  what  I  told  you,  but  the  fact  is  I 
was  desperate  poor  before  I  began  to  support  myself 
taking  boarders,  and  a  lone  woman  without  her  — 
her  — 

The  sentence  plunged  into  the  gulf  of  her  great 
remembered  sorrow,  and  was  lost  to  the  records  of 
humanity. 

—  Presently  she  continued  in  answer  to  my  ques- 
tions :  The  Lady  was  not  very  sociable ;  kept  mostly 
to  herself.  The  Young  Girl  (our  Scheherezade)  used 
to  visit  her  sometimes,  and  they  seemed  to  like  each 
other,  but  the  Young  Girl  had  not  many  spare  hours 
for  visiting.  The  Lady  never  found  fault,  but  she 


THE   POET   AT   THE   BREAKFAST-TABLE.  57 

was  very  nice  in  her  tastes,  and  kept  everything  about 
her  looking  as  neat  and  pleasant  as  she  could. 

—  What  did  she  do?  —  Why,  she  read,  and  she 
drew  pictures,  and  she  did  needlework  patterns,  and 
played  on  an  old  harp  she  had;  the  gilt  was  mostly 
off,  but  it  sounded  very  sweet,  and  she  sung  to  it 
sometimes,  those  old  songs  that  used  to  be  in  fashion 
twenty  or  thirty  years  ago,  with  words  to  'em  that 
folks  could  understand. 

Did  she  do  anything  to  help  support  herself  ?  —  The 
Landlady  couldn't  say  she  did,  but  she  thought 
there  was  rich  people  enough  that  ought  to  buy  the 
flowers  and  things  she  worked  and  painted. 

All  this  points  to  the  fact  that  she  was  bred  to  be 
an  ornamental  rather  than  what  is  called  a  useful 
member  of  society.  This  is  all  very  well  so  long  as 
fortune  favors  those  who  are  chosen  to  be  the  orna- 
mental personages;  but  ii  the  golden  tide  recedes  and 
leaves  them  stranded,  they  are  more  to  be  pitied  than 
almost  any  other  class.  "I  cannot  dig,  to  beg  I  am 
ashamed." 

I  think  it  is  unpopular  in  this  country  to  talk  much 
about  gentlemen  and  gentlewomen.  People  are  touchy 
about  social  distinctions,  which  no  doubt  are  often  in- 
vidious and  quite  arbitrary  and  accidental,  but  which 
it  is  impossible  to  avoid  recognizing  as  facts  of  nat- 
ural history.  Society  stratifies  itself  everywhere,  and 
the  stratum  which  is  generally  recognized  as  the  up- 
permost will  be  apt  to  have  the  advantage  in  easy  grace 
of  manner  and  in  unassuming  confidence,  and  conse- 
quently be  more  agreeable  in  the  superficial  relations 
of  life.  To  compare  these  advantages  with  the  virtues 
and  utilities  would  be  foolish.  Much  of  the  noblest 
work  in  life  is  done  by  ill-dressed,  awkward,  ungainly 


58  THE   POET   AT   THE   BKEAKFAST-TABLE. 

persons ;  but  that  is  no  more  reason  for  undervaluing 
good  manners  and  what  we  call  high-breeding,  than 
the  fact  that  the  best  part  of  the  sturdy  labor  of  the 
world  is  done  by  men  with  exceptionable  hands  is  to 
be  urged  against  the  use  of  Brown  Windsor  as  a  pre° 
liminary  to  appearance  in  cultivated  society. 

I  mean  to  stand  up  for  this  poor  lady,  whose  use- 
fulness in  the  world  is  apparently  problematicaL 
She  seems  to  me  like  a  picture  which  has  fallen  from 
its  gilded  frame  and  lies,  face  downward,  on  the  dusty 
floor.  The  picture  never  was  as  needful  as  a  window 
or  a  door,  but  it  was  pleasant  to  see  it  in  its  place, 
and  it  would  be  pleasant  to  see  it  there  again,  and  I, 
for  one,  should  be  thankful  to  have  the  Lady  restored 
by  some  turn  of  fortune  to  the  position  from  which 
she  has  been  so  cruelly  cast  down. 

—  I  have  asked  the  Landlady  about  the  young  man 
sitting  near  her,  the  same  who  attracted  my  attention 
the  other  day  while  I  was  talking,  as  I  mentioned. 
He  passes  most  of  his  time  in  a  private  observatory, 
it  appears ;  a  watcher  of  the  stars.  That  I  suppose 
gives  the  peculiar  look  to  his  lustrous  eyes.  The 
Master  knows  him  and  was  pleased  to  tell  me  some- 
thing about  him. 

You  call  yourself  a  Poet,  —  he  said,  —  and  we  call 
you  so,  too,  and  so  you  are;  I  read  your  verses  and 
like  'em.  But  that  young  man  lives  in  a  world  be- 
yond the  imagination  of  poets,  let  me  tell  you.  The 
daily  home  of  his  thought  is  in  illimitable  space,  hov- 
ering between  the  two  eternities.  In  his  contempla- 
tions the  divisions  of  time  run  together,  as  in  the 
thought  of  his  Maker.  With  him  also,  —  I  say  it  not 
profanely,  —  one  day  is  as  a  thousand  years  and  a 
thousand  years  as  one  day. 


THE   POET   AT   THE   BKEAKFAST-TABLE.  59 

This  account  of  his  occupation  increased  the  interest 
his  look  had  excited  in  me,  and  I  have  observed  him 
more  particularly  and  found  out  more  about  him. 
Sometimes,  after  a  long  night's  watching,  he  looks  so 
pale  and  worn,  that  one  would  think  the  cold  moon- 
light  had  stricken  him  with  some  malign  effluence9 
such  as  it  is  fabled  to  send  upon  those  who  sleep  in 
it.  At  such  times  he  seems  more  like  one  who  has 
come  from  a  planet  farther  away  from  the  sun  than 
our  earth,  than  like  one  of  us  terrestrial  creatures. 
His  home  is  truly  in  the  heavens,  and  he  practises  an 
asceticism  in  the  cause  of  science  almost  comparable 
to  that  of  Saint  Simeon  Stylites.  Yet  they  tell  me 
he  might  live  in  luxury  if  he  spent  on  himself  what  he 
spends  on  science.  His  knowledge  is  of  that  strange, 
remote  character,  that  it  seems  sometimes  almost  su- 
perhuman. He  knows  the  ridges  and  chasms  of  the 
moon  as  a  surveyor  knows  a  garden-plot  he  has  mea- 
sured. He  watches  the  snows  that  gather  around  the 
poles  of  Mars ;  he  is  on  the  lookout  for  the  expected 
comet  at  the  moment  when  its  faint  stain  of  diffused 
light  first  shows  itself ;  he  analyzes  the  ray  that  comes 
from  the  sun's  photosphere;  he  measures  the  rings 
of  Saturn ;  he  counts  his  asteroids  to  see  that  none  are 
missing,  as  the  shepherd  counts  the  sheep  in  his  flock. 
A  strange  unearthly  being ;  lonely,  dwelling  far  apart 
from  the  thoughts  and  cares  of  the  planet  on  which 
he  lives,  —  an  enthusiast  who  gives  his  life  to  know- 
ledge ;  a  student  of  antiquity,  to  whom  the  records  of 
the  geologist  are  modern  pages  in  the  great  volume  of 
being,  and  the  pyramids  a  memorandum  of  yesterday, 
as  the  eclipse  or  occultation  that  is  to  take  place  thou- 
sands of  years  hence  is  an  event  of  to-morrow  in  the 
diary  without  beginning  and  without  end  where  he 


60  THE   POET   AT   THE   BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 

enters  the  aspect  of  the  passing  moment  as  it  is  read 
on  the  celestial  dial. 

In  very  marked  contrast  with  this  young  man  is  the 
something  more  than  middle-aged  Register  of  Deeds, 
a  rusty,  sallow,  smoke-dried  looking  personage,  who 
belongs  to  this  earth  as  exclusively  as  the  other  be- 
longs to  the  firmament.  His  movements  are  as  me- 
chanical as  those  of  a  pendulum,  —  to  the  office,  where 
he  changes  his  coat  and  plunges  into  messuages  and 
building-lots;  then,  after  changing  his  coat  again, 
back  to  our  table,  and  so,  day  by  day,  the  dust  of 
years  gradually  gathering  around  him  as  it  does  on  the 
old  folios  that  fill  the  shelves  all  round  the  great  cem- 
etery of  past  transactions  of  which  he  is  the  sexton. 

Of  the  Salesman  who  sits  next  him,  nothing  need 
be  said  except  that  he  is  good-looking,  rosy,  well- 
dressed,  and  of  very  polite  manners,  only  a  little  more 
brisk  than  the  approved  style  of  carriage  permits,  — 
as  one  in  the  habit  of  springing  with  a  certain  alacrity 
at  the  call  of  a  customer. 

You  would  like  to  see,  I  don't  doubt,  how  we  sit  at 
the  table,  and  I  will  help  you  by  means  of  a  diagram 
which  shows  the  present  arrangement  of  our  seats. 


The       The  Young  Girl    The  Matter          Th»  The  The  Man 

Lady.    (Sohehereiade).     of  Arts.  Poet.  Soarabee.      of  Letters(T). 


0 

0 

o 

o 

o 

o 

0 

0 

o 

o 

0 

0 

o 

o 

That  The       The  Member  of    The  Register          The 

Boj.         Astronomer.    th«  Haouae.         of  Deeds.        8al«iman. 


THE   POET   AT   THE   BREAKFAST-TABLE.  61 

Our  young  Scheherezade  varies  her  prose  stories 
now  and  then,  as  I  told  you,  with  compositions  in 
verse,  one  or  two  of  which  she  has  let  me  look  over. 
Here  is  one  of  them,  which  she  allowed  me  to  copy. 
It  is  from  a  story  of  hers,  "The  Sun-Worshipper's 
Daughter,"  which  you  may  find  in  the  periodical  be- 
fore mentioned,  to  which  she  is  a  contributor,  if  you 
can  lay  your  hand  upon  a  file  of  it.  I  think  our 
Scheherezade  has  never  had  a  lover  in  human  shape, 
or  she  would  not  play  so  lightly  with  the  firebrands 
of  the  great  passion. 

FANTASIA. 

Kiss  mine  eyelids,  beauteous  Morn, 
Blushing  into  life  new-born  ! 
Lend  me  violets  for  my  hair, 
And  thy  russet  robe  to  wear, 
And  thy  ring  of  rosiest  hue 
Set  in  drops  of  diamond  dew  ! 

Kiss  my  cheek,  thou  noontide  ray, 
From  my  Love  so  far  away ! 
Let  thy  splendor  streaming  down 
Turn  its  pallid  lilies  brown, 
Till  its  darkening  shades  reveal 
Where  his  passio'n  pressed  its  seal  1 

Kiss  my  lips,  thou  Lord  of  light, 
Kiss  my  lips  a  soft  good  night  ! 
Westward  sinks  thy  golden  car  ; 
Leave  me  but  the  evening  star, 
And  my  solace  that  shall  be, 
Borrowing  all  its  light  from  thee  ! 


62  THE   POET   AT   THE   BKEAKF AST-TABLE. 


III. 

The  old  Master  was  talking  about  a  concert  he  had 
been  to  hear. 

—  I  don't  like  your  chopped  music  anyway.  That 
woman  —  she  had  more  sense  in  her  little  finger  than 
forty  medical  societies  —  Florence  Nightingale  —  says 
that  the  music  youpour  out  is  good  for  sick  folks,  and 
the  music  you  pound  out  isn't.  Not  that  exactly, 
but  something  like  it.  I  have  been  to  hear  some 
music-pounding.  It  was  a  young  woman,  with  as 
many  white  muslin  flounces  round  her  as  the  planet 
Saturn  has  rings,  that  did  it.  She  gave  the  music- 
stool  a  twirl  or  two  and  fluffed  down  on  to  it  like  a 
whirl  of  soap-suds  in  a  hand-basin.  Then  she  pushed 
-ap  her  cuffs  as  if  she  was  going  to  fight  for  the  cham- 
pion's belt.  Then  she  worked  her  wrists  and  her 
hands,  to  limber  'em,  I  suppose,  and  spread  out  her 
fingers  till  they  looked  as  though  they  would  pretty 
much  cover  the  key -board,  from  the  growling  end  to 
the  little  squeaky  one.  Then  those  two  hands  of  hers 
made  a  jump  at  the  keys  as  if  they  were  a  couple  of 
tigers  coming  down  on  a  flock  of  black  and  white 
sheep,  and  the  piano  gave  a  great  howl  as  if  its  tail 
had  been  trod  on.  Dead  stop,  —  so  still  you  could 
hear  your  hair  growing.  Then  another  jump,  and 
another  howl,  as  if  the  piano  had  two  tails  and  you 
had  trod  on  both  of  'em  at  once,  and  then  a  grand 
clatter  and  scramble  and  string  of  jumps,  up  and 
down,  back  and  forward,  one  hand  over  the  other,  like 
a  stampede  of  rats  and  mice  more  than  like  anything 
I  call  music.  I  like  to  hear  a  woman  sing,  and  I  like 
to  hear  a  fiddle  sing,  but  these  noises  they  hammer 


THE   POET   AT   THE   BREAKFAST-TABLE.  63 

out  of  their  wood  and  ivory  anvils  —  don't  talk  to  me, 
I  know  the  difference  between  a  bullfrog  and  a  wood- 
thrush  and  — 

Pop !  went  a  small  piece  of  artillery  such  as  is  made 
of  a  stick  of  elder  and  carries  a  pellet  of  very  moder- 
ate consistency.  That  Boy  was  in  his  seat  and  look- 
ing demure  enough,  but  there  could  be  no  question 
that  he  was  the  artillery -man  who  had  discharged  the 
missile.  The  aim  was  not  a  bad  one,  for  it  took  the 
Master  full  in  the  forehead,  and  had  the  effect  of 
checking  the  flow  of  his  eloquence.  How  the  little 
monkey  had  learned  to  time  his  interruptions  I  do  hot 
know,  but  I  have  observed  more  than  once  before 
this,  that  the  popgun  would  go  off  just  at  the  moment 
when  some  one  of  the  company  was  getting  too  ener- 
getic or  prolix.  The  Boy  isn't  old  enough  to  judge 
for  himself  when  to  intervene  to  change  the  order  of 
conversation;  no,  of  course  he  isn't.  Somebody 
must  give  him  a  hint.  Somebody.  —  Who  is  it  ?  I 
suspect  Dr.  B.  Franklin.  He  looks  too  knowing. 
There  is  certainly  a  trick  somewhere.  Why,  a  day 
or  two  ago  I  was  myself  discoursing,  with  consider- 
able effect,  as  I  thought,  on  some  of  the  new  aspects 
of  humanity,  when  I  was  struck  full  on  the  cheek  by 
one  of  these  little  pellets,  and  there  was  such  a  con- 
founded laugh  that  I  had  to  wind  up  and  leave  off 
with  a  preposition  instead  of  a  good  mouthful  of  poly- 
syllables. I  have  watched  our  young  Doctor,  how- 
ever, and  have  been  entirely  unable  to  detect  any 
signs  of  communication  between  him  and  this  auda- 
cious child,  who  is  like  to  become  a  power  among  us, 
for  that  popgun  is  fatal  to  any  talker  who  is  hit  by  its 
pellet.  I  have  suspected  a  foot  under  the  table  as 
the  prompter,  but  I  have  been  unable  to  detect  the 


64  THE   POET   AT   THE   BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

slightest  movement  or  look  as  if  he  were  making  one, 
on  the  part  of  Dr.  Benjamin  Franklin.  I  cannot 
help  thinking  of  the  flappers  in  Swift's  Laputa,  only 
they  gave  one  a  hint  when  to  speak  and  another  a  hint 
to  listen,  whereas  the  popgun  says  unmistakably, 
"Shut  up!" 

—  I  should  be  sorry  to  lose  my  confidence  in  Dr.  B0 
Franklin,  who  seems  very  much  devoted  to  his  busi- 
ness, and  whom  I  mean  to  consult  about  some  small 
symptoms  I  have  had  lately.  Perhaps  it  is  coming  to 
a  new  boarding-house.  The  young  people  who  come 
into  Paris  from  the  provinces  are  very  apt  —  so  I  have 
been  told  by  one  that  knows  —  to  have  an  attack  of 
typhoid  fever  a  few  weeks  or  months  after  their  arri- 
val. I  have  not  been  long  enough  at  this  table  to 
get  well  acclimated;  perhaps  that  is  it.  Boarding- 
House  Fever.  Something  like  horse-ail,  very  likely, 
—  horses  get  it,  you  know,  when  they  are  brought  to 
city  stables.  A  little  "off  my  feed,"  as  Hiram  Wood- 
ruff would  say.  A  queer  discoloration  about  my  fore- 
head. Query,  a  bump?  Cannot  remember  any. 
Might  have  got  it  against  bedpost  or  something  while 
asleep.  Very  unpleasant  to  look  so.  I  wonder  how 
my  portrait  would  look,  if  anybody  should  take  it 
now!  I  hope  not  quite  so  badly  as  one  I  saw  the 
other  day,  which  I  took  for  the  end  man  of  the  Ethi- 
opian Serenaders,  or  some  traveller  who  had  been  ex- 
ploring the  sources  of  the  Niger,  until  I  read  the  name 
at  the  bottom  and  found  it  was  a  face  I  knew  as  well 
as  my  own. 

I  must  consult  somebody,  and  it  is  nothing  more 
than  fair  to  give  our  young  Doctor  a  chance.  Here 
goes  for  Dr.  Benjamin  Franklin. 

The  young  Doctor  has  a  very  small  office  and  a  very 


THE   POET  AT  THE   BREAKFAST-TABLE.  65 

large  sign,  with  a  transparency  at  night  big  enough 
for  an  oyster-shop.  These  young  doctors  are  partic- 
ularly strong,  as  I  understand,  on  what  they  call  di- 
agnosis, —  an  excellent  branch  of  the  healing  art,  full 
of  satisfaction  to  the  curious  practitioner,  who  likes  to 
give  the  right  Latin  name  to  one's  complaint;  not 
quite  so  satisfactory  to  the  patient,  as  it  is  not  so  very 
much  pleasanter  to  be  bitten  by  a  dog  with  a  collar 
round  his  neck  telling  you  that  he  is  called  Snap  or 
Teaser,  than  by  a  dog  without  a  collar.  Sometimes, 
in  fact,  one  would  a  little  rather  not  know  the  exact 
name  of  his  complaint,  as  if  he  does  he  is  pretty  sure 
to  look  it  out  in  a  medical  dictionary,  and  then  if  he 
reads,  This  terrible  disease  is  attended  with  vast 
suffering  and  is  inevitably  mortal,  or  any  such  state- 
ment, it  is  apt  to  affect  him  unpleasantly. 

I  confess  to  a  little  shakiness  when  I  knocked  at 
Dr.  Benjamin's  office  door.  "Come  in !"  exclaimed 
Dr.  B.  F.  in  tones  that  sounded  ominous  and  sepul- 
chral. And  I  went  in. 

I  don't  believe  the  chambers  of  the  Inquisition  ever 
presented  a  more  alarming  array  of  implements  for 
extracting  a  confession,  than  our  young  Doctor's  office 
did  of  instruments  to  make  nature  tell  what  was  the 
matter  with  a  poor  body. 

There  were  Ophthalmoscopes  and  Rhinoscopes  and 
Otoscopes  and  Laryngoscopes  and  Stethoscopes;  and 
Thermometers  and  Spirometers  and  Dynamometers 
and  Sphygmometers  and  Pleximeters ;  and  Probes  and 
Probangs  and  all  sorts  of  frightful  inquisitive  explor- 
ing contrivances ;  and  scales  to  weigh  you  in,  and  tests 
and  balances  and  pumps  and  electro-magnets  and 
magneto-electric  machines;  in  short,  apparatus  for 
doing  everything  but  turn  you  inside  out. 


66  THE   POET   AT   THE   BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

Dr.  Benjamin  set  me  clown  before  his  one  window 
and  began  looking  at  me  with  such  a  superhuman  air 
of  sagacity,  that  I  felt  like  one  of  those  open-breasted 
clocks  which  make  no  secret  of  their  inside  arrange- 
ments, and  almost  thought  he  could  see  through  me 
as  one  sees  through  a  shrimp  or  a  jelly-fish.  First  he 
looked  at  the  place  inculpated,  which  had  a  sort  of 
greenish-brown  color,  with  his  naked  eyes,  with  much 
corrugation  of  forehead  and  fearful  concentration  of 
attention ;  then  through  a  pocket-glass  which  he  car- 
ried. Then  he  drew  back  a  space,  for  a  perspective 
view.  Then  he  made  me  put  out  my  tongue  and  laid 
a  slip  of  blue  paper  on  it,  which  turned  red  and  scared 
me  a  little.  Next  he  took  my  wrist ;  but  instead  of 
counting  my  pulse  in  the  old-fashioned  way,  he  fas- 
tened a  machine  to  it  that  marked  all  the  beats  on  a 
sheet  of  paper,  —  for  all  the  world  like  a  scale  of  the 
heights  of  mountains,  say  from  Mount  Tom  up  to 
Chimborazo  and  then  down  again,  and  up  again,  and 
so  on.  In  the  mean  time  he  asked  me  all  sorts  of 
questions  about  myself  and  all  my  relatives,  whether 
we  had  been  subject  to  this  and  that  malady,  until  I 
felt  as  if  we  must  some  of  us  have  had  more  or  less  of 
them,  and  could  not  feel  quite  sure  whether  Elephan- 
tiasis and  Beriberi  and  Progressive  Locomotor  Ataxy 
did  not  run  in  the  family. 

After  all  this  overhauling  of  myself  and  my  history, 
he  paused  and  looked  puzzled.  Something  was  sug- 
gested about  what  he  called  an  "exploratory  punc- 
ture." This  I  at  once  declined,  with  thanks.  Sud- 
denly a  thought  struck  him.  He  looked  still  more 
closely  at  the  discoloration  I  have  spoken  of. 

—  Looks  like  —  I  declare  it  reminds  me  of  —  very 
rare !  very  curious !  It  would  be  strange  if  my  first 
case  —  of  this  kind  —  should  be  one  of  our  boarders ! 


THE   POET   AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  67 

What  kind  of  a  case  do  you  call  it  ?  —  I  said,  with 
a  sort  of  feeling  that  he  could  inflict  a  severe  or  a 
light  malady  on  me,  as  if  he  were  a  judge  passing  sen- 
tence. 

-  The  color  reminds  me,  —  said  Dr.  B.  Franklin, 
- — of  what  I  have  seen  in  a  case  of  Addison's  Disease, 
Morbus  Addisonii. 

—  But  my  habits  are  quite  regular,  —  I  said ;  for  I 
remembered  that  the  distinguished   essayist  was  too 
fond  of  his  brandy  and  water,  and  I  confess  that  the 
thought  was  not  pleasant  to  me  of  following  Dr.  John- 
son's advice,  with  the  slight  variation  of  giving  my 
days  and  my  nights  to  trying  on  the  favorite  maladies 
of  Addison. 

—  Temperance    people    are    subject   to    it!  —  ex- 
claimed Dr.  Benjamin,  almost  exultingly,  I  thought. 

—  But  I  had  the  impression  that  the  author  of  the 
Spectator  was  afflicted  with  a  dropsy,  or  some  such 
inflated  malady,  to  which  persons  of  sedentary  and 
bibacious   habits  are  liable.     [A  literary  swell,  —  I 
thought  to  myself,  but  I  did  not  say  it.     I  felt  too 
serious.] 

—  The  author  of  the  Spectator!  —  cried  out  Dr. 
Benjamin,  —  I  mean  the  celebrated  Dr.  Addison,  in- 
ventor, I  would  say  discoverer,  of  the  wonderful  new 
disease  called  after  him. 

—  And  what  may  this  valuable  invention  or  discov- 
ery consist  in  ?  —  I  asked,  for  I  was  curious  to  know 
the  nature  of  the  gift  which  this  benefactor  of  the  race 
had  bestowed  upon  us. 

—  A  most  interesting  affection,  and  rare,  too.     Al- 
low me  to  look  closely  at  that  discoloration  once  more 
for  a  moment.      Outis  cenea,  bronze  skin,  they  call 
it  sometimes  —  extraordinary  pigmentation  —  a  little 


68      THE  POET  AT  THE  BEE AKFAST-T ABLE. 

more  to  the  light,  if  you  please  —  ah !  now  I  get  the 
bronze  coloring  admirably,  beautifully  I  Would  you 
have  any  objection  to  showing  your  case  to  the  Soci- 
eties of  Medical  Improvement  and  Medical  Obser- 
vation ? 

[ — My  case!  O  dear!]  May  I  ask  if  any  vita! 
organ  is  commonly  involved  in  this  interesting  com- 
plaint ?  —  I  said,  faintly. 

—  Well,  sir,  —  the  young  Doctor  replied,  —  there 
is     an    organ    which     is  —  sometimes  —  a     little  — 
touched,  I  may  say ;  a  very  curious  and  —  ingenious 
little  organ  or  pair  of  organs.     Did  you  ever  hear  of 
the  Capsulce  Suprarenales? 

—  No, — said  I, — is  it  a  mortal  complaint?  —  I 
ought  to  have  known  better  than  to  ask  such  a  ques- 
tion, but  I  was  getting  nervous  and  thinking  about  all 
sorts  of  horrid  maladies  people  are  liable  to,  with  hor- 
rid names  to  match. 

—  It  is  n't  a  complaint,  —  I  mean  they  are  not  a 
complaint,  —  they  are  two  small  organs,  as  I  said, 
inside  of  you,  and  nobody  knows  what  is  the  use  of 
them.     The  most  curious  thing  is  that  when  anything 
is  the  matter  with  them  you   turn  of   the   color   of 
bronze.     After  all,  I  didn't  mean  to  say  I  believed 
it  was  Morbus  Addisonii  ;   I  only  thought  of  that 
when  I  saw  the  discoloration. 

So  he  gave  me  a  recipe,  which  I  took  care  to  put 
where  it  could  do  no  hurt  to  anybody,  and  I  paid  him 
his  fee  (which  he  took  with  the  air  of  a  man  in  the  re- 
ceipt of  a  great  income)  and  said  Good-morning. 

—  What  in  the  name  of  a  thousand  diablos  is  the 
reason  these  confounded  doctors  will   mention  their 
guesses  about  "a  case,"  as  they  call  it,  and  all  its  con- 


THE  POET  AT   THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  69 

ceivable  possibilities,  out  loud  before  their  patients? 
I  don't  suppose  there  is  anything  in  all  this  nonsense 
about  "Addison's  Disease,"  but  I  wish  he  hadn't 
spoken  of  that  very  interesting  ailment,  and  I  should 
feel  a  little  easier  if  that  discoloration  would  leave  my 
forehead.  I  will  ask  the  Landlady  about  it,  —  these 
old  women  often  know  more  than  the  young  doctors 
just  come  home  with  long  names  for  everything  they 
don't  know  how  to  cure.  But  the  name  of  this  com- 
plaint sets  me  thinking.  Bronzed  skin!  What  an 
odd  idea !  Wonder  if  it  spreads  all  over  one.  That 
would  be  picturesque  and  pleasant,  now,  wouldn't  it? 
To  be  made  a  living  statue  of,  —  nothing  to  do  but 
strike  an  attitude.  Arm  up  —  so  —  like  the  one  in 
the  Garden.  John  of  Bologna's  Mercury  —  thus  — 
on  one  foot.  Needy  knife-grinder  in  the  Tribune  at 
Florence.  No,  not  "  needy,"  come  to  think  of  it. 
Marcus  Aurelius  on  horseback.  Query.  Are  horses 
subject  to  the  Morbus  Addisonii?  Advertise  for  a 
bronzed  living  horse  —  Lyceum  invitations  and  en- 
gagements—  bronze  versus  brass. — What 's  the  use 
in  being  frightened  ?  Bet  it  was  a  bump.  Pretty  cer- 
tain I  bumped  my  forehead  against  something.  Never 
heard  of  a  bronzed  man  before.  Have  seen  white  men, 
black  men,  red  men,  yellow  men,  two  or  three  blue 
men,  stained  with  doctor's  stuff;  some  green  ones,  — 
from  the  country;  but  never  a  bronzed  man.  Poh, 
poh !  Sure  it  was  a  bump.  Ask  Landlady  to  look 
at  it. 

—  Landlady  did  look  at  it.  Said  it  was  a  bump, 
and  no  mistake.  Recommended  a  piece  of  brown 
paper  dipped  in  vinegar.  Made  the  house  smell  as  if 
it  were  in  quarantine  for  the  plague  from  Smyrna,  but 
discoloration  soon  disappeared,  —  so  I  did  not  become 


70  THE   POET  AT   THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

a  bronzed  man  after  all,  —  hope  I  never  shall  while  I 
am  alive.  Should  n't  mind  being  done  in  bronze  after 
I  was  dead.  On  second  thoughts  not  so  clear  about 
it,  remembering  how  some  of  them  look  that  we  have 
got  stuck  up  in  public ;  think  I  had  rather  go  down  to 
posterity  in  an  Ethiopian  Minstrel  portrait,  like  our 
friend's  the  other  day. 

—  You  were  kind  enough  to  say,  I  remarked  to  the 
Master,   that   you   read  my  poems  and   liked  them. 
Perhaps  you  would  be  good  enough  to  tell  me  what  it 
is  you  like  about  them  ? 

The  Master  harpooned  a  breakfast-roll  and  held  it 
up  before  me.  —  Will  you  tell  me,  —  he  said,  —  why 
you  like  that  breakfast-roll?  —  I  suppose  he  thought 
that  would  stop  my  mouth  in  two  senses.  But  he  was 
mistaken. 

—  To  be  sure  I  will,  —  said  I.  —  Eirst,  I  like  its 
mechanical  consistency ;  brittle    externally,  —  that  is 
for  the  teeth,  which  want  resistance  to  be  overcome ; 
soft,  spongy,  well  tempered  and  flavored  internally, 
—  that  is  for  the  organ  of  taste;  wholesome,  nutri- 
tious, —  that  is  for  the  internal  surfaces  and  the  sys- 
tem generally. 

—  Good !  —  said  the  Master,  and  laughed  a  hearty 
terrestrial  laugh. 

I  hope  he  will  carry  that  faculty  of  an  honest  laugh 
with  him  wherever  he  goes,  —  why  should  n't  he  ?  The 
"order  of  things,"  as  he  calls  it,  from  which  hilarity 
was  excluded,  would  be  crippled  and  one-sided 
enough.  I  don't  believe  the  human  gamut  will  be 
cheated  of  a  single  note  after  men  have  done  breath- 
ing this  fatal  atmospheric  mixture  and  die  into  the 
ether  of  immortality! 


THE  POET  AT  THE   BREAKFAST-TABLE.  71 

I  didn't  say  all  that;  if  I  had  said  it,  it  would 
have  brought  a  pellet  from  the  popgun,  I  feel  quite 
certain. 

The  Master  went  on  after  he  had  had  out  his  laugh. 

—  There  is  one  thing  I  am  His  Imperial  Majesty 
about,  and  that  is  my  likes  and  dislikes.     What  if 
I  do  like  your  verses,  — you  can't  help  yourself.     I 
don't  doubt  somebody  or  other  hates  'em  and  hates 
you  and  everything  you  do,  or  ever  did,  or  ever  can 
do.     He  is  all  right ;  there  is  nothing  you  or  I  like 
that  somebody  does  n't  hate.      Was  there  ever  any- 
thing wholesome  that  was  not  poison  to  somebody? 
If  you  hate  honey  or  cheese,  or  the  products  of  the 
dairy,  —  I  know  a  family  a  good  many  of  whose  mem- 
bers can't  touch  milk,  butter,  cheese,  and  the  like,  — 
why,  say  so,  but  don't  find  fault  with  the  bees  and  the 
cows.     Some  are  afraid  of  roses,  and  I  have  known 
those  who  thought  a  pond-lily  a  disagreeable  neighbor. 
That  Boy  will  give  you  the  metaphysics  of  likes  and 
dislikes.     Look  here,  —  you  young  philosopher  over 
there,  — do  you  like  candy? 

That  Boy.  —  You  bet !  Give  me  a  stick  and  see 
if  I  don't. 

And  can  you  tell  me  why  you  like  candy? 

That  Boy.  —  Because  I  do. 

—  There,  now,  that  is  the  whole  matter  in  a  nut- 
shell. Why  do  your  teeth  like  crackling  crust,  and 
your  organs  of  taste  like  spongy  crumb,  and  your  di- 
gestive contrivances  take  kindly  to  bread  rather  than 
toadstools  — 

That  Boy  (thinking  he  was  still  being  catechised). 

—  Because  they  do. 

Whereupon  the  Landlady  said,  Sh !  and  the  Young 
Girl  laughed,  and  the  Lady  smiled;  and  Dr.  Ben 


72  THE  POET  AT  THE   BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

Franklin  kicked  him,  moderately,  under  the  table, 
and  the  Astronomer  looked  up  at  the  ceiling  to  see 
what  had  happened,  and  the  Member  of  the  Haouse 
cried,  Order !  Order !  and  the  Salesman  said,  Shut  up, 
cashboy !  and  the  rest  of  the  boarders  kept  on  feeding; 
except  the  Master,  who  looked  very  hard  but  half  ap- 
provingly at  the  small  intruder,  who  had  come  about' 
as  nearly  right  as  most  professors  would  have  done. 

—  You  poets,  —  the  Master  said  after  this  excite- 
ment had  calmed  down,  —  you  poets  have  one  thing 
about  you  that  is  odd.     You  talk  about  everything  as 
if  you  knew  more  about  it  than  the  people  whose  busi- 
ness it  is  to  know  all  about  it.     I  suppose  you  do  a 
little  of  what  we  teachers  used  to  call  "cramming" 
now  and  then? 

—  If  you  like  your  breakfast  you  must  n't  ask  the 
cook  too  many  questions,  —  I  answered. 

—  Oh,  come  now,  don't  be  afraid  of  letting  out 
your  secrets.     I  have  a  notion  I  can  tell  a  poet  that 
gets  himself  up  just  as  I  can  tell  a  make-believe  old 
man  on  the  stage  by  the  line  where  the  gray  skull- 
cap joins  the  smooth  forehead  of  the  young  fellow 
of  seventy.     You  '11  confess  to  a  rhyming  dictionary 
anyhow,  won't  you? 

—  I  would  as  lief  use  that  as  any  other  dictionary, 
but  I  don't  want  it.     When  a  word  comes  up  fit  to 
end  a  line  with  I  can  feel  all  the  rhymes  in  the  lan- 
guage that  are  fit  to  go  with  it  without  naming  them. 
I  have  tried  them  all  so  many  times,  I  know  all  the 
polygamous  words  and  all  the  monogamous  ones,  and 
all  the  unmarrying  ones,  —  the  whole  lot  that  have  no 
mates,  —  as  soon  as  I  hear  their  names  called.     Some- 
times I  run  over  a  string  of  rhymes,  but  generally 


THE   POET  AT  THE  BKEAKFAST-TABLE.  73 

speaking  it  is  strange  what  a  short  list  it  is  of  those 
that  are  good  for  anything.  That  is  the  pitiful  side 
of  all  rhymed  verse.  Take  two  such  words  as  home 
and  world.  What  can  you  do  with  chrome  or  loam 
or  gnome  or  tome  ?  You  have  dome,  foam,  and  roam, 
and  not  much  more  to  use  in  your  pome,  as  some  of 
our  fellow-countrymen  call  it.  As  for  world,  you 
know  that  in  all  human  probability  somebody  or  some- 
thing will  be  hurled  into  it  or  out  of  it;  its  clouds 
may  be  furled  or  its  grass  impearled ;  possibly  some- 
thing may  be  whirled,  or  curled,  or  have  swirled,  — 
one  of  Leigh  Hunt's  words,  which  with  lush,  one  of 
Keats 's,  is  an  important  part  of  the  stock  in  trade  of 
some  dealers  in  rhyme. 

—  And  how  much  do  you  versifiers  know  of   all 
those  arts  and  sciences  you  refer  to  as  if  you  were  as 
familiar  with  them  as  a  cobbler  is  with  his  wax  and 
lapstone? 

—  Enough  not  to  make  too  many  mistakes.     The 
best  way  is  to  ask  some  expert  before  one  risks  him- 
self very  far  in  illustrations  from  a  branch  he  does  not 
know  much  about.     Suppose,  for  instance,  I  wanted 
to  use  the  double  star  to  illustrate  anything,  say  the 
relation  of  two  human  souls  to  each  other,  what  would 
I  do?     Why,  I  would  ask  our  young  friend  there 
to  let  me  look  at  one  of  those  loving  celestial  pairs 
through  his  telescope,  and  I  don't  doubt  he  'd  let  me 
do  so,  and  tell  me  their  names  and  all  I  wanted  to 
know  about  them. 

—  I  should   be   most  happy  to  show  any  of  the 
double  stars  or  whatever  else  there  might  be  to  see  in 
the  heavens  to  any  of  our  friends  at  this  table,  —  the 
young  man  said,  so  cordially  and  kindly  that  it  was 
a  real  invitation. 


74  THE   POET   AT  THE    BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

—  Show  us  the  man  in  the  moon,  —  said  That  Boy. 
—  I  should   so   like  to   see  a  double   star!  —  said 

Scheherezade,  with  a  very  pretty  air  of  smiling  mod- 
esty. 

—  Will  you  go,  if  we  make  up  a  party?  —  I  asked 
the  Master. 

—  A  cold  in  the  head  lasts  me  from  three  to  five 
days,  —  answered   the  Master.  —  I   am   not  so  very 
fond  of  being  out  in  the  dew  like  Nebuchadnezzar : 
that  will  do  for  you  young  folks. 

—  I  suppose  I  must  be  one  of  the  young  folks,  — • 
not  so  young  as  our  Scheherezade,  nor  so  old  as  the 
Capitalist,  —  young  enough   at   any  rate  to  want  to 
be  of  the  party.     So  we  agreed   that  on  some  fair 
night  when  the  Astronomer  should  tell  us  that  there 
was  to  be  a  fine  show  in  the  skies,  we  would  make  up 
a  party  and  go  to  the    Observatory.     I   asked   the 
Scarabee  whether  he  would  not  like  to  make  one  of  us. 

—  Out  of  the  question,  sir,  out  of  the  question.     I 
am  altogether  too  much  occupied  with  an  important 
scientific  investigation  to  devote  any  considerable  part 
of  an  evening  to  star-gazing. 

—  Oh,  indeed,  —  said  I,  —  and  may  I  venture  to 
ask  on  what  particular  point  you  are  engaged  just  at 
present? 

—  Certainly,  sir,  you   may.     It  is,  I  suppose,  as 
difficult  and  important  a  matter  to  be  investigated  as 
often  comes  before  a  student  of  natural  history.     I 
wish  to  settle  the  point  once  for  all  whether  the  Pedi- 
culus  Melittce  is  or  is  not  the  larva  of  Meloe. 

[ — Now  is  n't  this  the  drollest  world  to  live  in  that 
one  could  imagine,  short  of  being  in  a  fit  of  delirium 
tremens?  Here  is  a  fellow-creature  of  mine  and 
purs  who  is  asked  to  see  all  the  glories  of  the  firma- 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  75 

ment  brought  close  to  him,  and  he  is  too  busy  with  a 
little  unmentionable  parasite  that  infests  the  bristly 
surface  of  a  bee  to  spare  an  hour  or  two  of  a  single 
evening  for  the  splendors  of  the  universe !  I  must 
get  a  peep  through  that  microscope  of  his  and  see  the 
pediculus  which  occupies  a  larger  space  in  his  mental 
vision  than  the  midnight  march  of  the  solar  systems. 
—  The  creature,  the  human  one,  I  mean,  interests 
me.] 

—  I  am  very  curious,  —  I  said,  —  about  that  pedi- 
culus melittce,  —  (just  as  if  I  knew  a  good  deal  about 
the  little  wretch  and  wanted  to  know  more,  whereas 
I  had  never  heard  him  spoken  of  before,  to  my  know- 
ledge,) —  could  you  let  me  have  a  sight  of  him  in  your 
microscope  ? 

—  You  ought  to  have  seen  the  way  in  which  the 
poor  dried-up  little  Scarabee  turned  towards  me.     His 
eyes  took  on  a    really  human  look,  and    I    almost 
thought  those  antennae-like  arms  of  his  would  have 
stretched  themselves  out  and  embraced  me.     I  don't 
believe  any  of  the  boarders  had  ever  shown  any  in- 
terest in  him,  except  the  little  monkey  of  a  Boy,  since 
he  had  been  in  the  house.     It  is  not  strange ;  he  had 
not  seemed  to  me  much  like  a  human  being,  until  all 
at  once  I  touched  the  one  point  where  his  vitality  had 
concentrated  itself,  and  he  stood  revealed  a  man  and  a 
brother. 

—  Come  in,  —  said  he,  —  come  in,  right  after  break- 
fast, and  you  shall  see  the  animal  that  has  convulsed 
the  entomological  world  with  questions  as  to  his  nature 
and  origin. 

—  So  I  went  into  the  Scarabee 's  parlor,  lodging- 
room,    study,    laboratory,    and    museum,  —  a   single 
apartment  applied  to  these  various  uses,  you  under- 
stand. 


76  THE   POET  AT   THE   BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

—  I  wish  I  had  time  to  have  you  show  me  all  your 
treasures,  —  I  said,  —  but  I  am  afraid  I  shall  hardly 
be  able  to  do  more  than  look  at  the  bee-parasite.     But 
what  a  superb  butterfly  you  have  in  that  case ! 

—  Oh,  yes,  yes,  well  enough,  —  came  from  South 
America  with  the  beetle  there ;  look  at  him  !     These 
Lepidoptera  are  for  children  to  play  with,  pretty  to 
look  at,  so  some  think.     Give  me  the  Coleoptera,  and 
the  kings  of  the  Coleoptera  are  the  beetles !     Lepi- 
doptera and  Neuroptera  for  little  folks;   Coleoptera 
for  men,  sir ! 

—  The  particular  beetle  he  showed  me  in  the  case 
with  the  magnificent  butterfly  was  an  odious  black 
wretch  that  one  would  say,  Ugh !  at,  and  kick  out  of 
his  path,  if  he  did  not  serve  him  worse  than  that. 
But  he  looked  at  it  as  a  coin-collector  would  look  at  a 
Pescennius  Niger,  if  the  coins  of  that  Emperor  are  as 
scarce  as  they  used  to  be  when  I  was  collecting  half- 
penny tokens  and  pine-tree  shillings  and  battered  bits 
of  Roman  brass  with  the  head  of  Gallienus  or  some 
such  old  fellow  on  them. 

—  A  beauty !  —  he  exclaimed,  —  and  the  only  spe- 
cimen of  the  kind  in  this  country,  to  the  best  of  my 
belief.     A  unique,  sir,  and  there  is  a  pleasure  in  ex- 
clusive possession.     Not  another  beetle  like  that  short 
of  South  America,  sir. 

—  I  was  glad  to  hear  that  there  were  no  more  like 
it  in  this  neighborhood,  the  present  supply  of  cock- 
roaches answering  every  purpose,  so  far  as  I  am  con- 
cerned, that  such  an  animal  as  this  would  be  likely 
to  serve. 

—  Here  are  my  bee-parasites,  —  said  the  Scarabee, 
showing  me  a  box  full  of  glass  slides,   each  with  a 
specimen  ready  mounted  for  the  microscope.     I  was 


THE   POET   AT   THE   BREAKFAST-TABLE.  77 

most  struck  with  one  little  beast  flattened  out  like  a 
turtle,  semi-transparent,  six-legged,  as  I  remember 
him,  and  every  leg  terminated  by  a  single  claw  hooked 
like  a  lion's  and  as  formidable  for  the  size  of  the  crea- 
ture as  that  of  the  royal  beast. 

—  Lives  on  a  bumblebee,   does  he?  —  I  said. — 
That's  the  way  I  call  it.     Bumblebee  or  bumblybee 
and  huckleberry.     Humblebee  and  whortleberry  for 
people  that  say  Woos-ses-ter  and  Nor-wich. 

—  The  Scarabee  did  not  smile ;  he  took  no  interest 
in  trivial  matters  like  this. 

—  [Lives   on  a  bumblebee.     When  you   come  to 
think  of  it,  he  must  lead  a  pleasant  kind  of  life.     Sails 
through  the  air  without  the  trouble  of  flying.     Free 
pass  everywhere  that  the  bee  goes.     No  fear  of  being 
dislodged;  look  at  those  six  grappling-hooks.     Helps 
himself  to  such  juices  of  the  bee  as  he  likes  best ;  the 
bee  feeds  on  the  choicest  vegetable  nectars,  and  he 
feeds  on  the  bee.     Lives  either  in  the  air  or  in  the 
perfumed  pavilion  of  the  fairest  and  sweetest  flowers. 
Think  what  tents  the  hollyhocks  and  the  great  lilies 
spread  for  him !     And  wherever  he  travels  a  band  of 
music  goes  with  him,  for  this  hum  which  wanders 
by  us  is  doubtless  to  him  a  vast  and  inspiring  strain 
of  melody.]  —  I  thought  all  this,  while  the  Scarabee 
supposed  I  was  studying  the  minute  characters  of  the 
enigmatical  specimen. 

—  I  know  what  I  consider  your  pediculus  melittce, 
I  said  at  length. 

Do  you  think  it  really  the  larva  of  meloe  ? 

—  Oh,  I  don't  know  much  about  that,  but  I  think 
he  is  the  best  cared  for,  on  the  whole,  of  any  animal 
that  I  know  of;  and  if  I  wasn't  a  man  I  believe  I 
had  rather  be  that  little  sybarite  than  anything  that 
feasts  at  the  board  of  nature. 


78  THE   POET   AT   THE   BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

—  The  question  is,  whether  he  is  the  larva  of  meloe, 
—  the  Scarabee  said,  as  if  he  had  not  heard  a  word 
of  what  I  had  just  been  saying.  —  If  I  live  a  few  years 
longer  it  shall  be  settled,  sir ;  and  if  my  epitaph  can 
say  honestly  that  I  settled  it,   I  shall  be  willing  to 
trust  my  posthumous  fame  to  that  achievement. 

I  said  good  morning  to  the  specialist,  and  went  off 
feeling  not  only  kindly,  but  respectfully  towards  him. 
He  is  an  enthusiast,  at  any  rate,  as  "  earnest "  a  man 
as  any  philanthropic  reformer  who,  having  passed  his 
life  in  worrying  people  out  of  their  misdoings  into 
good  behavior,  comes  at  last  to  a  state  in  which  he  is 
never  contented  except  when  he  is  making  somebody 
uncomfortable.  He  does  certainly  know  one  thing 
well,  very  likely  better  than  anybody  in  the  world. 

I  find  myself  somewhat  singularly  placed  at  our 
table  between  a  minute  philosopher  who  has  concen- 
trated all  his  faculties  on  a  single  subject,  and  my 
friend  who  finds  the  present  universe  too  restricted 
for  his  intelligence.  I  would  not  give  much  to  hear 
what  the  Scarabee  says  about  the  old  Master,  for  he 
does  not  pretend  to  form  a  judgment  of  anything  but 
beetles,  but  I  should  like  to  hear  what  the  Master  has 
to  say  about  the  Scarabee.  I  waited  after  breakfast 
until  he  had  gone,  and  then  asked  the  Master  what 
he  could  make  of  our  dried-up  friend. 

—  Well, — he  said, — I  am  hospitable  enough  in 
my  feelings  to  him  and  all  his  tribe.     These  special- 
ists are  the  coral-insects  that  build  up  a  reef.     By 
and  by  it  will  be  an  island,  and  for  aught  we  know 
may  grow  into  a  continent.     But  1  don't  want  to  be  a 
coral-insect  myself.     I  had  rather  be  a  voyager  that 
visits  all  the  reefs  and  islands  the  creatures  build,  and 
sails  over  the  seas  where  they  have  as  yet  built  up  no- 


THE   POET  AT   THE   BREAKFAST-TABLE.  79 

thing.  I  am  a  little  afraid  that  science  is  breeding  us 
down  too  fast  into  coral-insects.  A  man  like  Newton 
or  Leibnitz  or  Haller  used  to  paint  a  picture  of  out- 
ward or  inward  nature  with  a  free  hand,  and  stand 
back  and  look  at  it  as  a  whole  and  feel  like  an  archan- 
gel ;  but  nowadays  you  have  a  Society,  and  they  come 
together  and  make  a  great  mosaic,  each  man  bringing 
his  little  bit  and  sticking  it  in  its  place,  but  so  taken 
up  with  his  petty  fragment  that  he  never  thinks  of 
looking  at  the  picture  the  little  bits  make  when  they 
are  put  together.  You  can't  get  any  talk  out  of  these 
specialists  away  from  their  own  subjects,  any  more 
than  you  can  get  help  from  a  policeman  outside  of  his 
own  beat. 

—  Yes, — said  I, — but  why  shouldn't  we  always 
set  a  man  talking  about  the  thing  he  knows  best? 

—  No  doubt,  no  doubt,  if  you  meet  him  once ;  but 
what  are  you  going  to  do  with  him  if  you  meet  him 
every  day?     I  travel  with  a  man  and    we  want  to 
make  change  very  often  in  paying  bills.     But  every 
time  I  ask  him  to  change  a  pistareen,  or  give  me  two 
fo'pencehappennies  for  a  ninepence,   or  help    me  to 
make  out  two  and  thrippence  (mark  the  old  Master's 
archaisms  about  the  currency),  what  does  the  fellow 
do  but  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket  and  pull  out  an  old 
Eoman  coin ;  I  have  no  change,  says  he,  but  this  as- 
sarion  of  Diocletian.     Mighty  deal  of  good  that  '11  do 
me! 

—  It  isn't  quite  so  handy  as  a  few  specimens  of 
the  modern  currency  would  be,  but  you  can  pump  him 
on  numismatics.  i 

—  To  be  sure,  to  be  sure.     I  've  pumped  a  thousand 
men  of  all  they  could  teach  me,  or  at  least  all  I  could 
learn  from  'em;  and  if  it  comes  to  that,  I  never  saw 


80  THE  POET   AT   THE   BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

the  man  that  couldn't  teach  me  something.  I  can 
get  along  with  everybody  in  his  place,  though  I  think 
the  place  of  some  of  my  friends  is  over  there  among 
the  feeble-minded  pupils,  and  I  don't  believe  there  's 
one  of  them  I  couldn't  go  to  school  to  for  half  an 
hour  and  be  the  wiser  for  it.  But  people  you  talk 
with  every  day  have  got  to  have  feeders  for  their 
minds,  as  much  as  the  stream  that  turns  a  mill-wheel 
has.  It  isn't  one  little  rill  that 's  going  to  keep  the 
float-boards  turning  round.  Take  a  dozen  of  the 
brightest  men  you  can  find  in  the  brightest  city,  wher- 
ever that  may  be,  —  perhaps  you  and  I  think  we  know, 
—  and  let  'em  come  together  once  a  month,  and  you  '11 
find  out  in  the  course  of  a  year  or  two  the  ones  that 
have  feeders  from  all  the  hillsides.  Your  common 
talkers,  that  exchange  the  gossip  of  the  day,  have  no 
wheel  in  particular  to  turn,  and  the  wash  of  the  rain 
as  it  runs  down  the  street  is  enough  for  them. 

—  Do  you  mean  you    can  always  see  the  sources 
from  which  a  man  fills  his  mind,  —  his  feeders,  as  you 
call  them? 

—  I  don't  go  quite  so  far  as  that, — the  Master 
said.  —  I ' ve  seen  men  whose  minds  were  always  over- 
flowing, and  yet  they  didn't  read  much  nor  go  much 
into  the  world.     Sometimes  you  '11   find  a  bit  of  a 
pond-hole  in  a  pasture,  and  you  '11  plunge  your  walk- 
ing-stick into  it  and  think  you  are  going  to  touch  bot- 
tom.    But  you  find  you  are  mistaken.     Some  of  these 
little  stagnant  pond-holes  are  a  good  deal  deeper  than 
you  think ;  you  may  tie  a  stone  to  a  bed-cord  and  not 
get  soundings  in  some  of  'em.     The  country  boys  will 
tell  you  they  have  no  bottom,  but  that  only  means 
that  they  are  mighty  deep ;  and  so  a  good  many  stag- 
nant, stupid-seeming  people  are  a  great  deal  deeper 


THE  POET   AT  THE   BKEAKFAST-TABLE.  81 

than  the  length  of  your  intellectual  walking-stick,  I 
can  tell  you.  There  are  hidden  springs  that  keep  the 
little  pond-holes  full  when  the  mountain  brooks  are  all 
dried  up.  You  poets  ought  to  know  that. 

—  I  can't  help  thinking  you  are  more  tolerant  to- 
wards the  specialists  than  I  thought  at  first,  by  the 
way  you  seemed  to  look  at  our  dried-up  neighbor  and 
his  small  pursuits. 

—  I  don't  like    the  word    tolerant,  —  the  Master 
said.  —  As  long  as  the  Lord  can  tolerate  me  I  think 
I  can  stand  my  fellow-creatures.     Philosophically,  I 
love  'em  all;  empirically,  I  don't  think  I  am  very  fond 
of  all  of  'em.     It  depends  on  how  you  look  at  a  man 
or  a  woman.     Come  here,  Youngster,  will  you?  — 
he  said  to  That  Boy. 

The  Boy  was  trying  to  catch  a  blue-bottle  to  add  to 
his  collection,  and  was  indisposed  to  give  up  the  chase ; 
but  he  presently  saw  that  the  Master  had  taken  out  a 
small  coin  and  laid  it  on  the  table,  and  felt  himself 
drawn  in  that  direction. 

Read  that,  —  said  the  Master. 

U-n-i-ni  —  United  States  of  America  5  cents. 

The  Master  turned  the  coin  over.     Now  read  that. 

In  God  is  our  t-r-u-s-t  —  trust.     1869. 

—  Is  that  the  same  piece  of  money  as  the  other 
one? 

—  There  ain't  any  other  one,  —  said  the  Boy,  — ' 
there  ain't  but  one,  but  it 's  got  two  sides  to  it  with 
different  reading. 

—  That's  it,  that's  it, — said  the  Master, — two 
sides   to    everybody,  as  there  are   to  that   piece  of 
money.     I  've  seen  an  old  woman  that  would  n't  fetch 
five  cents  if  you  should  put  her  up  for  sale  at  public 
auction ;  and  yet  come  to  read  the  other  side  of  her, 


82  THE   POET   AT   THE   BKEAKFAST-TABLE. 

she  had  a  trust  in  God  Almighty  that  was  like  the 
bow  anchor  of  a  three-decker.  It 's  faith  in  some- 
thing and  enthusiasm  for  something  that  makes  a  life 
worth  looking  at.  I  don't  think  your  ant-eating  spe- 
cialist, with  his  sharp  nose  and  pin-head  eyes,  is  the 
best  every-day  companion ;  but  any  man  who  knows 
one  thing  well  is  worth  listening  to  for  once ;  and  if 
you  are  of  the  large-brained  variety  of  the  race,  and 
want  to  fill  out  your  programme  of  the  Order  of 
Things  in  a  systematic  and  exhaustive  way,  and  get 
all  the  half-notes  and  flats  and  sharps  of  humanity 
into  your  scale,  you  'd  a  great  deal  better  shut  your 
front  door  and  open  your  two  side  ones  when  you 
come  across  a  fellow  that  has  made  a  real  business  of 
doing  anything. 

—  That  Boy  stood  all  this  time  looking  hard  at  the 
five-cent  piece. 

—  Take  it,  —  said  the  Master,  with  a  good-natured 
smile. 

—  The  Boy  made  a  snatch  at  it  and  was  off  for  the 
purpose  of  investing  it. 

—  A  child  naturally  snaps  at  a  thing  as  a  dog  does 
at  his  meat,  —  said  the  Master.  —  If  you  think  of  it, 
we  've  all  been  quadrupeds.     A  child  that  can  only 
crawl  has  all  the  instincts  of  a  four-footed  beast.     It 
carries  things  in  its  mouth  just  as  cats  and  dogs  do. 
I  Ve  seen  the  little  brutes  do  it  over  and  over  again. 
I  suppose  a  good  many  children  would  stay  quadru- 
peds all  their  lives,  if  they  did  n't  learn  the  trick  of 
walking  on  their  hind  legs  from  seeing  all  the  grown 
people  walking  in  that  way. 

—  Do  you  accept  Mr.  Darwin's  notions  about  the 
origin  of  the  race?  —  said  I. 

The  Master  looked  at  me  with  that  twinkle  in  his 


THE  POET   AT  THE  BKEAKFAST-TABLE.  83 

eye  which  means  that  he  is  going  to  parry  a  ques- 
tion. 

—  Better  stick  to  Blair's  Chronology;  that  settles 
it.     Adam  and  Eve,  created  Friday,  October  28th,  B. 
C.  4004.    You  've  been  in  a  ship  for  a  good  while, 
and  here  comes  Mr.  Darwin  on  deck  with  an  armful 
of  sticks  and  says,  "Let 's  build  a  raft,  and  trust  our- 
selves to  that." 

If  your  ship  springs  a  leak,  what  would  you  do  ? 

He  looked  me  straight  in  the  eyes  for  about  half  a 
minute.  —  If  I  heard  the  pumps  going,  I  'd  look  and 
see  whether  they  were  gaining  on  the  leak  or  not.  If 
they  were  gaining  I  'd  stay  where  I  was.  —  Go  and 
find  out  what 's  the  matter  with  that  young  woman. 

I  had  noticed  that  the  Young  Girl  —  the  story- 
writer,  our  Scheherezade,  as  I  called  her  —  looked  as 
if  she  had  been  crying  or  lying  awake  half  the  night. 
I  found  on  asking  her,  —  for  she  is  an  honest  little 
body  and  is  disposed  to  be  confidential  with  me  for 
some  reason  or  other,  —  that  she  had  been  doing  both. 

—  And  what  was  the  matter  now,  I  questioned  her 
in  a  semi-paternal  kind  of  way,  as  soon  as  I  got  a 
chance  for  a  few  quiet  words  with  her. 

She  was  engaged  to  write  a  serial  story,  it  seems, 
and  had  only  got  as  far  as  the  second  number,  and 
some  critic  had  been  jumping  upon  it,  she  said,  and 
grinding  his  heel  into  it,  till  she  could  n't  bear  to  look 
at  it.  He  said  she  did  not  write  half  so  well  as  half 
a  dozen  other  young  women.  She  did  n't  write  half 
so  well  as  she  used  to  write  herself.  She  had  n't  any 
characters  and  she  hadn't  any  incidents.  Then  he 
went  to  work  to  show  how  her  story  was  coming  out, 
—  trying  to  anticipate  everything  she  could  make  of 
it,  so  that  her  readers  should  have  nothing  to  look  for- 


84  THE   POET  AT  THE  BKEAKFAST-TABLE. 

ward  to,  and  he  should  have  credit  for  his  sagacity  in 
guessing,  which  was  nothing  so  very  wonderful,  she 
seemed  to  think.  Things  she  had  merely  hinted  and 
left  the  reader  to  infer,  he  told  right  out  in  the  blunt- 
est and  coarsest  way.  It  had  taken  all  the  life  out  of 
her,  she  said.  It  was  just  as  if  at  a  dinner-party  one 
of  the  guests  should  take  a  spoonful  of  soup  and  get 
up  and  say  to  the  company,  "Poor  stuff,  poor  stuff; 
you  won't  get  anything  better;  let's  go  somewhere 
else  where  things  are  fit  to  eat." 

What  do  you  read  such  things  for,  my  dear?  — 
said  I. 

The  film  glistened  in  her  eyes  at  the  strange  sound 
of  those  two  soft  words ;  she  had  not  heard  such  very 
often,  I  am  afraid. 

—  I  know  I  am  a  foolish  creature  to  read  them,  — 
she  answered, — but  I  can't  help   it;    somebody  al- 
ways sends  me  everything  that  will  make  me  wretched 
to  read,  and  so  I  sit  down  and  read  it,  and  ache  all 
over  for  my  pains,  and  lie  awake  all  night. 

—  She  smiled  faintly  as  she  said  this,  for  she  saw 
the  sub-ridiculous  side  of  it,  but  the  film  glittered  still 
in  her  eyes.     There  are  a  good  many  real  miseries  in 
life  that  we  cannot  help  smiling  at,  but  they  are  the 
smiles  that  make  wrinkles  and  not  dimples.     "  Some- 
body always  sends  her  everything  that  will  make  her 
wretched."     Who  can  those  creatures  be  who  cut  out 
the  offensive  paragraph  and  send  it  anonymously  to 
us,  who  mail  the  newspaper  which  has  the  article  we 
had  much  better  not  have  seen,  who  take  care  that  we 
shall  know  everything  which  can,  by  any  possibility, 
help  to  make  us  discontented  with  ourselves  and  a  lit- 
tle less  light-hearted  than  we  were  before  we  had  been 
fools  enough  to  open  their  incendiary  packages  ?     I 


THE   POET  AT  THE   BREAKFAST-TABLE.  85 

don't  like  to  say  it  to  myself,  but  I  cannot  help  sus- 
pecting, in  this  instance,  the  doubtful-looking  person- 
age who  sits  on  my  left,  beyond  the  Scarabee.  I  have 
some  reason  to  think  that  he  has  made  advances  to  the 
Young  Girl  which  were  not  favorably  received,  to 
state  the  case  in  moderate  terms,  and  it  may  be  that 
he  is  taking  his  revenge  in  cutting  up  the  poor  girl's 
story.  I  know  this  very  well,  that  some  personal 
pique  or  favoritism  is  at  the  bottom  of  half  the  praise 
and  dispraise  which  pretend  to  be  so  very  ingenuous 
and  discriminating.  (Of  course  I  have  been  thinking 
all  this  time  and  telling  you  what  I  thought.) 

—  What  you  want  is  encouragement,  my  dear,  — 
said  I,  —  I  know  that  as  well  as  you.  I  don't  think 
the  fellows  that  write  such  criticisms  as  you  tell  me 
of  want  to  correct  your  faults.  I  don't  mean  to  say 
that  you  can  learn  nothing  from  them,  because  they 
are  not  all  fools  by  any  means,  and  they  will  often 
pick  out  your  weak  points  with  a  malignant  sagacity, 
as  a  pettifogging  lawyer  will  frequently  find  a  real  flaw 
in  trying  to  get  at  everything  he  can  quibble  about. 
But  is  there  nobody  who  will  praise  you  generously 
when  you  do  well,  —  nobody  that  will  lend  you  a  hand 
now  while  you  want  it,  —  or  must  they  all  wait  until 
you  have  made  yourself  a  name  among  strangers,  and 
then  all  at  once  find  out  that  you  have  something  in 
you? 

Oh,  —  said  the  girl,  and  the  bright  film  gathered 
too  fast  for  her  young  eyes  to  hold  much  longer,  —  I 
ought  not  to  be  ungrateful !  I  have  found  the  kindest 
friend  in  the  world.  Have  you  ever  heard  the  Lady 
—  the  one  that  I  sit  next  to  at  the  table  —  say  any- 
thing about  me? 

I  have  not  really  made  her  acquaintance,  I  said. 


86  THE   POET  AT   THE   BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

She  seems  to  me  a  little  distant  in  her  manners,  and  I 
have  respected  her  pretty  evident  liking  for  keeping 
mostly  to  herself. 

—  Oh,  but  when  you  once  do  know  her !     I  don't 
believe  I  could  write  stories  all  the  time  as  I  do,  if 
she  did  n't  ask  me  up  to  her  chamber,  and  let  me  read 
them  to  her.     Do  you  know,  I  can  make  her  laugh 
and  cry,  reading  my  poor  stories?     And  sometimes, 
when  I  feel  as  if  I  had  written  out  all  there  is  in 
me,  and  want  to  lie  down  and  go  to  sleep  and  never 
wake  up  except  in  a  world  where  there  are  no  weekly 
papers,  —  when  everything  goes  wrong,  like  a  car  off 
the  track,  —  she  takes  hold  and  sets  me  on  the  rails 
again  all  right. 

—  How  does  she  go  to  work  to  help  you  ? 

—  Why,  she  listens  to  my  stories,  to  begin  with,  as 
if   she   really  liked   to   hear   them.     And   then   you 
know  I  am  dreadfully  troubled  now  and  then  with 
some  of  my  characters,  and  can't  think  how  to  get  rid 
of  them.     And  she  '11  say,  perhaps,  Don't  shoot  your 
villain  this  time,  you  've  shot  three  or  four  already  in 
the  last  six  weeks;  let  his  mare  stumble  and  throw 
him  and  break  his  neck.     Or  she  '11  give  me  a  hint 
about  some  new  way  for  my  lover  to  make  a  declara- 
tion.    She  must  have  had  a  good  many  offers,  it 's  my 
belief,  for  she  has  told  me  a  dozen  different  ways  for 
me  to  use  in  my  stories.     And  whenever  I  read  a 
story  to  her,  she  always  laughs  and  cries  in  the  right 
places;  and  that 's  such  a  comfort,  for  there  are  some 
people  that  think  everything  pitiable  is  so  funny,  and 
will  burst  out  laughing  when  poor  Rip  Van  Winkle 
—  you've    seen    Mr.    Jefferson,   haven't    you? — is 
breaking  your  heart  for  you  if  you  have  one.     Some- 
times she  takes  a  poem  I  have  written  and  reads  it  to 


THE   POET   AT   THE   BREAKFAST-TABLE.  87 

me  so  beautifully,  that  I  fall  in  love  with  it,  and  some- 
times she  sets  my  verses  to  music  and  sings  them  to  me. 

—  You  have  a  laugh  together  sometimes,  do  you? 

—  Indeed  we  do.     I  write  for  what  they  call  the 
"Comic  Department "  of  the  paper  now  and  then.     If 
I  did  not  get  so  tired  of  story -telling,   I  suppose  I 
should  be  gayer  than  I  am ;  but  as  it  is,  we  two  get  a 
little  fun  out  of  my  comic  pieces.     I  begin  them  half- 
crying  sometimes,  but  after  they  are  done  they  amuse 
me.     I  don't  suppose  my  comic  pieces  are  very  laugh- 
able ;  at  any  rate  the  man  who  makes  a  business  of 
writing  me  down  says  the   last  one  I  wrote  is  very 
melancholy  reading,   and  that  if  it  was  only  a  little 
better  perhaps  some  bereaved  person  might  pick  out 
a  line  or  two  that  would  do  to  put  on  a  gravestone. 

—  Well,  that  is  hard,  I  must  confess.     Do  let  me 
see  those  lines  which  excite  such  sad  emotions. 

—  Will  you  read  them  very  good-naturedly  ?    If  you 
will,  I  will  get  the  paper  that  has  "Aunt  Tabitha." 
That  is  the  one  the  fault-finder  said  produced  such 
deep  depression  of  feeling.     It  was  written  for  the 
"  Comic  Department. "     Perhaps  it  will  make  you  cry, 
but  it  was  n't  meant  to. 

—  I  will  finish  my  report  this  time  with  our  Sche- 
herezade's  poem,  hoping  that  any  critic  who  deals  with 
it  will  treat  it  with  the  courtesy  due  to  all  a  young 
lady's  literary  efforts. 

AUNT  TABITHA. 

Whatever  I  do,  and  whatever  I  say, 
Aunt  Tabitha  tells  me  that  is  n't  the  way  ; 
When  she  was  a  girl  (forty  summers  ago) 
Aunt  Tabitha  tells  me  they  never  did  so. 


88  THE   POET   AT   THE   BKEAKFAST-TABLE. 

Dear  aunt !     If  I  only  would  take  her  advice  ! 
But  I  like  my  own  way,  and  I  find  it  so  nice  ! 
And  besides,  I  forget  half  the  things  I  am  told  ; 
But  they  all  will  come  back  to  me  —  when  I  am  old. 

If  a  youth  passes  by,  it  may  happen,  no  doubt, 
He  may  chance  to  look  in  as  I  chance  to  look  out ; 
She  would  never  endure  an  impertinent  stare,  — 
It  is  horrid,  she  says,  and  I  must  n't  sit  there. 

A  walk  in  the  moonlight  has  pleasures,  I  own, 

But  it  is  n't  quite  safe  to  be  walking  alone  ; 

So  I  take  a  lad's  arm,  — just  for  safety,  you  know,— 

But  Aunt  Tabitha  tells  me  they  did  n't  do  so. 

How  wicked  we  are,  and  how  good  they  were  theu  ! 
They  kept  at  arm's  length  those  detestable  men ; 
What  an  era  of  virtue  she  lived  in  !  —  But  stay  — 
Were  the  men  all  such  rogues  in  Aunt  Tabitha's  day  ? 

If  the  men  were  so  wicked,  I  '11  ask  my  papa 

How  he  dared  to  propose  to  my  darling  mamma  ; 

Was  he  like  the  rest  of  them  ?     Goodness  !     Who  knows  ? 

And  what  shall  /  say  if  a  wretch  should  propose  ? 

I  am  thinking  if  aunt  knew  so  little  of  sin, 
What  a  wonder  Aunt  Tabitha's  aunt  must  have  been  ! 
And  her  grand-aunt  —  it  scares  me  —  how  shockingly  sad 
That  we  girls  of  to-day  are  so  frightfully  bad  ! 

A  martyr  will  save  us,  and  nothing  else  can  ; 

Let  me  perish  —  to  rescue  some  wretched  young  man ! 

Though  when  to  the  altar  a  victim  I  go, 

Aunt  Tabitha '11  tell  me  she  never  did  so  ! 


IV. 

The  old  Master  has  developed  one  quality  of  late  for 
which  I  am  afraid  I  hardly  gave  him  credit.  He  has 
turned  out  to  be  an  excellent  listener. 


THE   POET   AT   THE   BKEAKFAST-TABLE.  89 

—  I  love  to  talk,  —  he  said,  —  as  a  goose  loves  to 
swim.     Sometimes  I  think  it  is  because  I  am  a  goose. 
For  I  never  talked  much  at  any  one  time  in  my  life 
without  saying  something  or  other  I  was  sorry  for. 

—  You  too!  —  said  I. —  Now  that  is  very  odd,  for 
it  is  an  experience  /  have  habitually.     I  thought  you 
were  rather  too  much  of  a  philosopher  to  trouble  your- 
self about  such  small  matters  as  to  whether  you  had 
said  just  what  you  meant  to  or  not ;  especially  as  you 
know  that  the  person  you  talk  to  does  not  remember  a 
word  of  what  you  said  the  next  morning,  but  is  think- 
ing, it  is  much  more  likely,  of  what  she  said,  or  how 
her  new  dress  looked,  or  some  other  body's  new  dress 
which  made  hers  look  as  if  it  had  been  patched  to- 
gether from  the  leaves  of   last  November.     That 's 
what  she  's  probably  thinking  about. 

—  She !  —  said  the  Master,  with  a  look  which  it 
would  take  at  least  half  a  page  to  explain  to  the  entire 
satisfaction  of  thoughtful  readers  of  both  sexes. 

—  I  paid  the  respect  due  to  that  most  significant 
monosyllable,  which,  as  the  old  Rabbi  spoke  it,  with 
its  targum  of  tone  and  expression,  was  not  to  be  an- 
swered flippantly,  but  soberly,  advisedly,  and  after  a 
pause  long  enough  for  it  to  unfold  its  meaning  in  the 
listener's  mind.     For  there  are  short  single  words  (all 
the  world  remembers  Rachel's  Helas  /)  which  are  like 
those  Japanese  toys  that  look  like  nothing  of  any  sig- 
nificance as  you  throw  them  on  the  water,  but  which 
after  a  little  time  open  out  into  various  strange  and 
unexpected  figures,  and  then  you  find  that  each  little 
shred  had  a  complicated  story  to  tell  of  itself. 

—  Yes,  —  said  I,  at  the  close  of  this  silent  interval, 
during  which  the  monosyllable  had  been  opening  out 
its  meanings,  —  She.     When  I  think  of  talking,  it  is 


90  THE   POET    AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

of  course  with  a  woman.  For  talking  at  its  best 
being  an  inspiration,  it  wants  a  corresponding  divine 
quality  of  receptiveness ;  and  where  will  you  find  this 
but  in  woman? 

The  Master  laughed  a  pleasant  little  laugh,  —  not 
a  harsh,  sarcastic  one,  but  playful,  and  tempered  by 
so  kind  a  look  that  it  seemed  as  if  every  wrinkled  line 
about  his* old  eyes  repeated,  "God  bless  you,"  as  the 
tracings  on  the  walls  of  the  Alhambra  repeat  a  sen- 
tence of  the  Koran. 

I  said  nothing,  but  looked  the  question,  What  are 
you  laughing  at? 

—  Why,  I  laughed  because  I  could  n't  help  saying 
to  myself  that  a  woman  whose  mind  was  taken  up 
with  thinking  how  she  looked,   and  how  her  pretty 
neighbor    looked,    wouldn't  have    a    great   deal   of 
thought  to  spare  for  all  your  fine  discourse. 

—  Come,  now,  —  said  I,  —  a  man  who  contradicts 
himself  in  the  course  of  two  minutes  must  have  a  screw 
loose  in  his  mental  machinery.     I  never  feel  afraid 
that  such  a  thing  can  happen  to  me,  though  it  happens 
often  enough  when  I  turn  a  thought  over  suddenly,  as 
you  did  that  five-cent  piece  the  other  day,  that  it  reads 
differently  on  its  two  sides.     What  I  meant  to  say  is 
something  like  this.     A  woman,  notwithstanding  she 
is  the  best  of  listeners,  knows  her  business,  and  it  is  a 
woman's  business  to  please.     I  don't  say  that  it  is  not 
her  business  to  vote,  but  I  do  say  that  a  woman  who 
does  not  please  is  a  false  note  in  the  harmonies  of  na- 
ture.    She  may  not  have  youth,  or  beauty,  or  even 
manner;  but  she  must  have  something  in  her  voice  or 
expression,  or  both,  which  it  makes  you  feel  better 
disposed  towards  your  race  to  look  at  or  listen  to. 
She  knows  that  as  well  as  we  do ;  and  her  first  ques- 


THE   POET   AT   THE   BKEAKFAST-TABLE.  91 

tion  after  you  have  been  talking  your  soul  into  her 
consciousness  is,  Did  /please?  A  woman  never  for- 
gets her  sex.  She  would  rather  talk  with  a  man  than 
an  angel,  any  day. 

—  This  frightful  speech  of  mine  reached  the  ear  of 
our  Scheherezade,  who  said  that  it  was  perfectly 
shocking  and  that  I  deserved  to  be  shown  up  as  the 
outlaw  in  one  of  her  bandit  stories. 

Hush,  my  dear,  —  said  the  Lady,  —  you  will  have 
to  bring  John  Milton  into  your  story  with  our  friend 
there,  if  you  punish  everybody  who  says  naughty 
things  like  that.  Send  the  little  boy  up  to  my  cham- 
ber for  Paradise  Lost,  if  you  please.  He  will  find  it 
lying  on  my  table.  The  little  old  volume,  — he  can't 
mistake  it. 

So  the  girl  called  That  Boy  round  and  gave  him  the 
message ;  I  don't  know  why  she  should  give  it,  but 
she  did,  and  the  Lady  helped  her  out  with  a  word  or 
two. 

The  little  volume  —  its  cover  protected  with  soft 
white  leather  from  a  long  kid  glove,  evidently  sug- 
gesting the  brilliant  assemblies  of  the  days  when 
friends  and  fortune  smiled  —  came  presently  and  the 
Lady  opened  it.  —  You  may  read  that,  if  you  like,  — 
she  said,  —  it  may  show  you  that  our  friend  is  to  be 
pilloried  in  good  company. 

The  Young  Girl  ran  her  eye  along  the  passage  the 
Lady  pointed  out,  blushed,  laughed,  and  slapped  the 
book  down  as  though  she  would  have  liked  to  box  the 
ears  of  Mr.  John  Milton,  if  he  had  been  a  contempo- 
rary and  fellow-contributor  to  the  "Weekly  Bucket." 
—  I  won't  touch  the  thing,  —  she  said.  —  He  was  a 
horrid  man  to  talk  so:  and  he  had  as  many  wives 
as  Blue -Beard. 


92  THE  POET   AT   THE   BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

—  Fair  play,  —  said  the  Master.  —  Bring  me  the 
book,  my  little  fractional  superfluity,  —  I  mean  you, 
my  nursling,  —  my  boy,  if  that  suits  your  small  High- 
ness better. 

The  Boy  brought  the  book. 

The  old  Master,  not  unfamiliar  with  the  great  epic,  < 
opened  pretty  nearly  to  the  place,  and  very  soon  found ' 
the  passage.     He  read  aloud  with  grand   scholastic 
intonation  and  in  a  deep  voice  that  silenced  the  table 
as    if    a  prophet  had  just  uttered   Thus   saith  the 
Lord :  — 

"  So  spake  our  sire,  and  by  his  countenance  seemed 
Entering  on  studious  thoughts  abstruse  ;  which  Eve 

Perceiving  "  — 

'  i 

went  to  water  her  geraniums,  to  make  a  short  story 
of  it,  and  left  the  two  "conversationists,"  to  wit,  the 
angel  Raphael  and  the  gentleman,  —  there  was  but 
one  gentleman  in  society  then,  you  know,  —  to  talk  it 
out. 

"  Yet  went  she  not,  as  not  with  such  discourse 
Delighted,  or  not  capable  her  ear 
Of  what  was  high  ;  such  pleasure  she  reserved, 
Adam  relating,  she  sole  auditress  ; 
Her  husband  the  relater  she  preferred 
Before  the  angel,  and  of  him  to  ask 
Chose  rather  ;  he  she  knew  would  intermix 
Grateful  digressions,  and  solve  high  dispute 
With  conjugal  caresses  :  from  his  lips 
Not  words  alone  pleased  her." 

Everybody  laughed,  except  the  Capitalist,  who  was 
a  little  hard  of  hearing,  and  the  Scarabee,  whose  life 
was  too  earnest  for  demonstrations  of  that  kind.  He 
had  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  volume,  however,  with  eager 
interest. 


THE   POET   AT   THE   BREAKFAST-TABLE.  93 

—  The  p'int  's  carried,  —  said  the  Member  of  the 
Haouse. 

Will  you  let  me  look  at  that  book  a  single  minute? 
—  said  the  Scarabee.  I  passed  it  to  him,  wondering 
what  in  the  world  he  wanted  of  Paradise  Lost. 

Dermestes  lardarius,  —  he  said,  pointing  to  a  place 
where  the  edge  of  one  side  of  the  outer  cover  had  been 
slightly  tasted  by  some  insect.  —  Very  fond  of  leather 
while  they  're  in  the  larva  state. 

—  Damage  the  goods  as  bad  as  mice,  —  said  the 
Salesman. 

—  Eat  half  the  binding  off   Folio  67,  —  said  the 
Register  of  Deeds.     Something  did,   anyhow,  and  it 
was  n't  mice.     Found  the  shelf   covered  with   little 
hairy  cases  belonging  to  something  or  other  that  had 
no  business  there. 

Skins  of  the  Dermestes  lardarius,  —  said  the  Scar- 
abee, —  you  can  always  tell  them  by  those  brown 
hairy  coats.  That  's  the  name  to  give  them. 

—  What  good  does  it  do  to  give  'em  a  name  after 
they  've  eat  the  binding  off  my  folios?  —  asked  the 
Register  of  Deeds. 

The  Scarabee  had  too  much  respect  for  science  to 
answer  such  a  question  as  that ;  and  the  book,  having 
served  its  purposes,  was  passed  back  to  the  Lady. 

I  return  to  the  previous  question,  —  said  I,  —  if  our 
friend  the  Member  of  the  House  of  Representatives 
will  allow  me  to  borrow  the  phrase.  Womanly  women 
are  very  kindly  critics,  except  to  themselves  and  now 
and  then  to  their  own  sex.  The  less  there  is  of  sex 
about  a  woman,  the  more  she  is  to  be  dreaded.  But 
take  a  real  woman  at  her  best  moment, —  well  dressed 
enough  to  be  pleased  with  herself,  not  so  resplendent 
as  to  be  a  show  and  a  sensation,  with  those  varied 


94  THE   POET   AT   THE   BKEAKFAST-TABLE. 

outside  influences  which  set  vibrating  the  harmonic 
notes  of  her  nature  stirring  in  the  air  about  her,  — • 
and  what  has  social  life  to  compare  with  one  of  those 
vital  interchanges  of  thought  and  feeling  with  her  that 
make  an  hour  memorable?  What  can  equal  her  tact, 
her  delicacy,  her  subtlety  of  apprehension,  her  quick- 
ness to  feel  the  changes  of  temperature  as  the  warm 
and  cool  currents  of  talk  blow  by  turns?  At  one  mo- 
ment she  is  microscopically  intellectual,  critical,  scru- 
pulous in  judgment  as  an  analyst's  balance,  and  the 
next  as  sympathetic  as  the  open  rose  that  sweetens 
the  wind  from  whatever  quarter  it  finds  its  way  to  her 
bosom.  It  is  in  the  hospitable  soul  of  a  woman  that 
a  man  forgets  he  is  a  stranger,  and  so  becomes  natural 
and  truthful,  at  the  same  time  that  he  is  mesmerized 
by  all  those  divine  differences  which  make  her  a  mys- 
tery and  a  bewilderment  to  — 

If  you  fire  your  popgun  at  me,  you  little  chimpan- 
zee, I  will  stick  a  pin  right  through  the  middle  of  you 
and  put  you  into  one  of  this  gentleman's  beetle-cases! 

I  caught  the  imp  that  time,  but  what  started  him 
was  more  than  I  could  guess.  It  is  rather  hard  that 
this  spoiled  child  should  spoil  such  a  sentence  as  that 
was  going  to  be ;  but  the  wind  shifted  all  at  once,  and 
the  talk  liad  to  come  round  on  another  tack,  or  at 
least  fall  off  a  point  or  two  from  its  course. 

—  I  '11  tell  you  who  I  think  are  the  best  talkers  in 
all  probability,  —  said  I  to  the  Master,  who,  as  I  men- 
tioned, was  developing  interesting  talent  as  a  listener, 
—  poets  who  never  write  verses.  And  there  are  a 
good  many  more  of  these  than  it  would  seem  at  first 
sight,  I  think  you  may  say  every  young  lover  is  a 
poet,  to  begin  with.  I  don't  mean  either  that  all 
young  lovers  are  good  talkers,  —  they  have  an  elo- 


THE   POET   AT   THE   BREAKFAST-TABLE.  95 

quence  all  their  own  when  they  are  with  the  beloved 
object,  no  doubt,  emphasized  after  the  fashion  the 
solemn  bard  of  Paradise  refers  to  with  such  delicious 
humor  in  the  passage  we  just  heard,  —  but  a  little 
talk  goes  a  good  way  in  most  of  these  cooing  matches, 
and  it  wouldn't  do  to  report  them  too  literally. 
What  I  mean  is,  that  a  man  with  the  gift  of  musical 
and  impassioned  phrase  (and  love  often  lends  that  to  a 
young  person  for  a  while),  who  "wreaks"  it,  to  bor- 
row Byron's  word,  on  conversation  as  the  natural  out- 
let of  his  sensibilities  and  spiritual  activities,  is  likely 
to  talk  better  than  the  poet,  who  plays  on  the  instru- 
ment of  verse.  A  great  pianist  or  violinist  is  rarely 
a  great  singer.  To  write  a  poem  is  to  expend  the 
vital  force  which  would  have  made  one  brilliant  for 
an  hour  or  two,  and  to  expend  it  on  an  instrument 
with  more  pipes,  reeds,  keys,  stops,  and  pedals  than 
the  Great  Organ  that  shakes  New  England  every  time 
it  is  played  in  full  blast. 

Do  you  mean  that  it  is  hard  work  to  write  a  poem? 
—  said  the  old  Master.  —  I  had  an  idea  that  a  poem 
wrote  itself,  as  it  were,  very  often;  that  it  came  by 
influx,  without  voluntary  effort;  indeed,  you  have 
spoken  of  it  as  an  inspiration  rather  than  a  result  of 
volition. 

—  Did  you  ever   see  a  great   ballet-dancer?  —  I 
asked  him. 

—  I  have  seen  Taglioni,  —  he  answered.  —  She  used 
to  take  her  steps  rather  prettily.     I  have  seen  the 
woman  that  danced  the  capstone  on  to  Bunker  Hill 
Monument,  as  Orpheus  moved  the  rocks  by  music,  — 
the    Elssler    woman,  —  Fanny   Elssler.     She   would 
dance  you  a  rigadoon  or  cut  a  pigeon's  wing  for  you 
very  respectably. 


96  THE   POET   AT   THE   BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

(Confound  this  old  college  book- worm,  —  lie  has 
seen  everything!) 

Well,  did  these  two  ladies  dance  as  if  it  was  hard 
work  to  them? 

—  Why  no,  I  should  say  they  danced  as  if  they 
liked  it  and  couldn't  help  dancing;  they  looked  as  if 
they  felt  so  "corky"  it  was  hard  to  keep  them  down. 

—  And  yet  they  had  been  through  such  work  to  get 
their  limbs  strong  and  flexible  and  obedient,  that  a 
cart-horse  lives  an  easy  life  compared  to  theirs  while 
they  were  in  training. 

—  The  Master  cut  in  just  here  — - 1  had  sprung  the 
trap  of  a  reminiscence. 

—  When  I  was  a  boy,  —  he  said,  —  some  of  the 
mothers  in  our  small  town,  who  meant  that  their  chil- 
dren should  know  what  was  what   as  well  as  other 
people's  children,  laid  their  heads  together  and  got  a 
dancing-master  to  come  out  from  the  city  and  give  in- 
struction at  a  few  dollars  a  quarter  to  the  young  folks 
of  condition  in  the  village.     Some  of  their  husbands 
were  ministers  and  some  were  deacons,  but  the  mo- 
thers knew  what  they  were  about,  and  they  did  n't  see 
any  reason  why  ministers'  and  deacons'  wives'  chil- 
dren should  n't  have  as  easy  manners  as  the  sons  and 
daughters  of  Belial.     So,   as  I  tell  you,  they  got  a 
dancing-master  to  come  out  to  our  place,  —  a  man  of 
good  repute,  a  most  respectable  man,  —  madam  (to  the 
Landlady),  you  must  remember  the  worthy  old  citizen, 
in  his  advanced  age,  going  about  the  streets,  a  most 
gentlemanly  bundle  of  infirmities,  —  only  he  always 
cocked  his  hat  a  little  too  much  on  one  side,  as  they 
do  here  and  there  along  the  Connecticut  River,  and 
sometimes  on  our  city  sidewalks,  when  they  'ye  got  a 
new  beaver;  they  got  him,  I  say,  to  give  us  boys  and 


THE   POET   AT   THE   BREAKFAST-TABLE.  97 

girls  lessons  in  dancing  and  deportment.  He  was  as 
gray  and  as  lively  as  a  squirrel,  as  I  remember  him, 
and  used  to  spring  up  in  the  air  and  "cross  his  feet," 
as  we  called  it,  three  times  before  he  came  down. 
"Well,  at  the  end  of  each  term  there  was  what  they 
called  an  "exhibition  ball,"  in  which  the  scholars 
danced  cotillons  and  country-dances;  also  something 
called  a  "gavotte,"  and  I  think  one  or  more  walked  a 
minuet.  But  all  this  is  not  what  I  wanted  to  say. 
At  this  exhibition  ball  he  used  to  bring  out  a  number 
of  hoops  wreathed  with  roses,  of  the  perennial  kind, 
by  the  aid  of  which  a  number  of  amazingly  compli- 
cated and  startling  evolutions  were  exhibited;  and 
also  his  two  daughters,  who  figured  largely  in  these 
evolutions,  and  whose  wonderful  performances  to  us, 
who  had  not  seen  Miss  Taglioni  or  Miss  Elssler,  were 
something  quite  bewildering,  in  fact,  surpassing  the 
natural  possibilities  of  human  beings.  Their  extra- 
ordinary powers  were,  however,  accounted  for  by  the 
following  explanation,  which  was  accepted  in  the 
school  as  entirely  satisfactory.  A  certain  little  bone 
in  the  ankles  of  each  of  these  young  girls  had  been 
broken  intentionally,  secundum  artem,  at  a  very  early 
age,  and  thus  they  had  been  fitted  to  accomplish  these 
surprising  feats  which  threw  the  achievements  of  the 
children  who  were  left  in  the  condition  of  the  natural 
man  into  ignominious  shadow. 

—  Thank  you,  —  said  I,  —  you  have  helped  out  my 
illustration  so  as  to  make  it  better  than  I  expected. 
Let  me  begin  again.  Every  poem  that  is  worthy  of 
the  name,  no  matter  how  easily  it  seems  to  be  written, 
represents  a  great  amount  of  vital  force  expended  at 
some  time  or  other.  When  you  find  a  beach  strewed 
with  the  shells  and  other  spoils  that  belonged  once  to 


98  THE   POET   AT   THE   BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

the  deep  sea,  you  know  the  tide  has  been  there,  and 
that  the  winds  and  waves  have  wrestled  over  its  naked 
sands.  And  so,  if  I  find  a  poem  stranded  in  my  soul 
and  have  nothing  to  do  but  seize  it  as  a  wrecker  car- 
ries off  the  treasure  he  finds  cast  ashore,  I  know  I 
have  paid  at  some  time  for  that  poem  with  some  in- 
ward commotion,  were  it  only  an  excess  of  enjoyment, 
which  has  used  up  -  just  so  much  of  my  vital  capital. 
But  besides  all  the  impressions  that  furnished  the 
stuff  of  the  poem,  there  has  been  hard  work  to  get  the 
management  of  that  wonderful  instrument  I  spoke  of, 
—  the  great  organ,  language.  An  artist  who  works 
in  marble  or  colors  has  them  all  to  himself  and  his 
tribe,  but  the  man  who  moulds  his  thought  in  verse 
has  to  employ  the  materials  vulgarized  by  everybody's 
use,  and  glorify  them  by  his  handling.  I  don't  know 
that  you  must  break  any  bones  in  a  poet's  mechanism 
before  his  thought  can  dance  in  rhythm,  but  read  your 
Milton  and  see  what  training,  what  patient  labor,  it 
took  before  he  could  shape  our  common  speech  into 
his  majestic  harmonies. 

It  is  rather  singular,  but  the  same  kind  of  thing  has 
happened  to  me  not  very  rarely  before,  as  I  suppose  it 
has  to  most  persons,  that  just  when  I  happened  to  be 
thinking  about  poets  and  their  conditions,  this  very 
morning,  I  saw  a  paragraph  or  two  from  a  foreign 
paper  which  is  apt  to  be  sharp,  if  not  cynical,  relating 
to  the  same  matter.  I  can't  help  it;  I  want  to  have 
my  talk  about  it,  and  if  I  say  the  same  things  that 
writer  did,  somebody  else  can  have  the  satisfaction  of 
saying  I  stole  them  all. 

[I  thought  the  person  whom  I  have  called  hypothet- 
ically  the  Man  of  Letters  changed  color  a  little  and 
betrayed  a  certain  awkward  consciousness  that  some 


THE   POET   AT   THE   BREAKFAST-TABLE.  99 

of  us  were  looking  at  him  or  thinking  of  him;  but 
I  am  a  little  suspicious  about  him  and  may  do  him 
wrong.] 

That  poets  are  treated  as  privileged  persons  by 
their  admirers  and  the  educated  public  can  hardly  be 
disputed.  That  they  consider  themselves  so  there  is 
no  doubt  whatever.  On  the  whole,  I  do  not  know  so 
easy  a  way  of  shirking  all  the  civic  and  social  and  do- 
mestic duties,  as  to  settle  it  in  one's  mind  that  one  is 
a  poet.  I  have,  therefore,  taken  great  pains  to  ad- 
vise other  persons  laboring  under  the  impression  that 
they  were  gifted  beings,  destined  to  soar  in  the  atmos- 
phere of  song  above  the  vulgar  realities  of  earth,  not 
to  neglect  any  homely  duty  under  the  influence  of  that 
impression.  The  number  of  these  persons  is  so  great 
that  if  they  were  suffered  to  indulge  their  prejudice 
against  every-day  duties  and  labors,  it  would  be  a 
serious  loss  to  the  productive  industry  of  the  country. 
My  skirts  are  clear  (so  far  as  other  people  are  con- 
cerned) of  countenancing  that  form  of  intellectual 
opium-eating  in  which  rhyme  takes  the  place  of  the 
narcotic.  But  what  are  you  going  to  do  when  you 
find  John  Keats  an  apprentice  to  a  surgeon  or  apoth- 
ecary? Isn't  it  rather  better  to  get  another  boy  to 
sweep  out  the  shop  and  shake  out  the  powders  and  stir 
up  the  mixtures,  and  leave  him  undisturbed  to  write 
his  Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn  or  to  a  Nightingale?  Oh 
yes,  the  critic  I  have  referred  to  would  say,  if  he  is 
John  Keats ;  but  not  if  he  is  of  a  much  lower  grade, 
even  though  he  be  genuine,  what  there  is  of  him.  But 
the  trouble  is,  the  sensitive  persons  who  belong  to  the 
lower  grades  of  the  poetical  hierarchy  do  not  know 
their  own  poetical  limitations,  while  they  do  feel  a 
natural  unfitness  and  disinclination  for  many  pursuits 


100    THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

which  young  persons  of  the  average  balance  of  facul- 
ties take  to  pleasantly  enough.  What  is  forgotten  is 
this,  that  every  real  poet,  even  of  the  humblest  grade, 
is  an  artist.  Now  I  venture  to  say  that  any  painter 
or  sculptor  of  real  genius,  though  he  may  do  nothing 
more  than  paint  flowers  and  fruit,  or  carve  cameos,  ic 
considered  a  privileged  person.  It  is  recognized  per- 
f  ectly  that  to  get  his  best  work  he  must  be  insured  the 
freedom  from  disturbances  which  the  creative  power 
absolutely  demands,  more  absolutely  perhaps  in  these 
slighter  artists  than  in  the  great  masters.  His  nerves 
must  be  steady  for  him  to  finish  a  rose-leaf  or  the 
fold  of  a  nymph's  drapery  in  his  best  manner;  and 
they  will  be  unsteadied  if  he  has  to  perform  the  hon- 
est drudgery  which  another  can  do  for  him  quite  as 
well.  And  it  is  just  so  with  the  poet,  though  he  were 
only  finishing  an  epigram ;  you  must  no  more  meddle 
roughly  with  him  than  you  would  shake  a  bottle  of 
Chambertin  and  expect  the  "sunset  glow"  to  redden 
your  glass  unclouded.  On  the  other  hand,  it  may  be 
said  that  poetry  is  not  an  article  of  prime  necessity, 
and  potatoes  are.  There  is  a  disposition  in  many  per- 
sons just  now  to  deny  the  poet  his  benefit  of  clergy, 
and  to  hold  him  no  better  than  other  people.  Per- 
haps he  is  not,  perhaps  he  is  not  so  good,  half  the 
time;  but  he  is  a  luxury,  and  if  you  want  him  you 
must  pay  for  him,  by  not  trying  to  make  a  drudge  of 
him  while  he  is  all  his  lifetime  struggling  with  the 
chills  and  heats  of  his  artistic  intermittent  fever. 

There  may  have  been  some  lesser  interruptions  dur«= 
ing  the  talk  I  have  reported  as  if  it  was  a  set  speech, 
but  this  was  the  drift  of  what  I  said  and  should  have 
said  if  the  other  man,  in  the  Review  I  referred  to, 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.    101 

had  not  seen  fit  to  meddle  with  the  subject,  as  some 
fellow  always  does,  just  about  the  time  when  I  am 
going  to  say  something  about  it.  The  old  Master  lis- 
tened beautifully,  except  for  cutting  in  once,  as  I  told 
you  he  did.  But  now  he  had  held  in  as  long  as  it  was 
in  his  nature  to  contain  himself,  and  must  have  his 
say  or  go  off  in  an  apoplexy,  or  explode  in  some  way. 
—  I  think  you  're  right  about  the  poets,  —  he  said. 
—  They  are  to  common  folks  what  repeaters  are  to 
ordinary  watches.  They  carry  music  in  their  inside 
arrangements,  but  they  want  to  be  handled  carefully 
or  you  put  them  out  of  order.  And  perhaps  you 
must  n't  expect  them  to  be  quite  as  good  timekeepers 
as  the  professional  chronometer  watches  that  make  a 
specialty  of  being  exact  within  a  few  seconds  a  month. 
They  think  too  much  of  themselves.  So  does  every- 
body that  considers  himself  as  having  a  right  to  fall 
back  on  what  he  calls  his  idiosyncrasy.  Yet  a  man 
has  such  a  right,  and  it  is  no  easy  thing  to  adjust 
the  private  claim  to  the  fair  public  demand  on  him. 
Suppose  you  are  subject  to  tic  douloureux,  for  in- 
stance. Every  now  and  then  a  tiger  that  nobody  can 
see  catches  one  side  of  your  face  between  his  jaws  and 
holds  on  till  he  is  tired  and  lets  go.  Some  concession 
must  be  made  to  you  on  that  score,  as  everybody  can 
see.  It  is  fair  to  give  you  a  seat  that  is  not  in  the 
draught,  and  your  friends  ought  not  to  find  fault  with 
you  if  you  do  not  care  to  join  a  party  that  is  going  on 
a  sleigh-ride.  Now  take  a  poet  like  Cowper.  He 
had  a  mental  neuralgia,  a  great  deal  worse  in  many 
respects  than  tic  douloureux  confined  to  the  face.  It 
was  well  that  he  was  sheltered  and  relieved,  by  the 
cares  of  kind  friends,  especially  those  good  women, 
from  as  many  of  the  burdens  of  life  as  they  could  lift 


102    THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

off  from  him.     I  am  fair  to  the  poets,  —  don't  you 
agree  that  I  am? 

Why,  yes,  —  I  said,  —  you  have  stated  the  case 
fairly  enough,  a  good  deal  as  I  sh  >uld  have  put  it  my- 
self. 

—  Now,  then, — the  Master  continued, — I'll  tell 
you  what  is  necessary  to  all  these  artistic  idiosyncra- 
sies to  bring  them  into  good  square  human  relations 
outside  of  the  special  province  where  their  ways  differ 
from  those  of  other  people.  I  am  going  to  illustrate 
what  I  mean  by  a  comparison.  I  don't  know,  by  the 
way,  but  you  would  be  disposed  to  think  and  perhaps 
call  me  a  wine-bibber  on  the  strength  of  the  freedom 
with  which  I  deal  with  that  fluid  for  the  purposes  of 
illustration.  But  I  make  mighty  little  use  of  it,  ex- 
cept as  it  furnishes  me  an  image  now  and  then,  as  it 
did,  for  that  matter,  to  the  Disciples  and  their  Mas- 
ter. In  my  younger  days  they  used  to  bring  up  the 
famous  old  wines,  the  White -top,  the  Juno,  the 
Eclipse,  the  Essex  Junior,  and  the  rest,  in  their  old 
cob  webbed,  dusty  bottles.  The  resurrection  of  one  of 
these  old  sepulchred  dignitaries  had  something  of  so- 
lemnity about  it;  it  was  like  the  disinterment  of  a 
king ;  the  bringing  to  light  of  the  Eoyal  Martyr  King 
Charles  I.,  for  instance,  that  Sir  Henry  Halford  gave 
such  an  interesting  account  of.  And  the  bottle  seemed 
to  inspire  a  personal  respect ;  it  was  wrapped  in  a  nap- 
kin and  borne  tenderly  and  reverently  round  to  the 
guests,  and  sometimes  a  dead  silence  went  before  the 
first  gush  of  its  amber  flood,  and 

"  The  boldest  held  his  breath 
For  a  time." 

But  nowadays  the  precious  juice  of  a  long-dead  vintage 
is  transferred  carefully  into  a  cut-glass  decanter,  and 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BKEAKFAST-TABLE.    103 

stands  side  by  side  with  the  sherry  from  a  corner  gro- 
cery, which  looks  just  as  bright  and  apparently  thinks 
just  as  well  of  itself.  The  old  historic  Madeiras, 
which  have  warmed  the  periods  of  our  famous  rhet- 
oricians of  the  past  and  burned  in  the  impassioned 
eloquence  of  our  earlier  political  demigods,  have  no- 
thing to  mark  them  externally  but  a  bit  of  thread,  it 
may  be,  round  the  neck  of  the  decanter,  or  a  slip  of 
ribbon,  pink  on  one  of  them  and  blue  on  another. 

Go  to  a  London  club,  —  perhaps  I  might  find 
something  nearer  home  that  would  serve  my  turn,  — 
but  go  to  a  London  club,  and  there  you  will  see  the 
celebrities  all  looking  alike  modern,  all  decanted  off 
from  their  historic  antecedents  and  their  costume  of 
circumstance  into  the  every-day  aspect  of  the  gentle- 
man of  common  cultivated  society.  That  is  Sir  Cceur 
de  Lion  Plantagenet  in  the  mutton-chop  whiskers  and 
the  plain  gray  suit ;  there  is  the  Laureate  in  a  frock- 
coat  like  your  own,  and  the  leader  of  the  House  of 
Commons  in  a  necktie  you  do  not  envy.  That  is  the 
kind  of  thing  you  want  to  take  the  nonsense  out  of 
you.  If  you  are  not  decanted  off  from  yourself  every 
few  days  or  weeks,  you  will  think  it  sacrilege  to 
brush  a  cobweb  from  your  cork  by  and  by.  O  little 
fool,  that  has  published  a  little  book  full  of  little 
poems  or  other  sputtering  tokens  of  an  uneasy  condi- 
tion, how  I  love  you  for  the  one  soft  nerve  of  special 
sensibility  that  runs  through  your  exiguous  organism, 
and  the  one  phosphorescent  particle  in  your  unillumi- 
nated  intelligence !  But  if  you  don't  leave  your  spun- 
sugar  confectionery  business  once  in  a  while,  and 
come  out  among  lusty  men,  —  the  bristly,  pachyder- 
matous fellows  that  hew  out  the  highways  for  the  ma- 
terial progress  of  society,  and  the  broad-shouldered, 


104    THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

out-of-door  men  that  fight  for  the  great  prizes  of  life, 
—  you  will  come  to  think  that  the  spun-sugar  business 
is  the  chief  end  of  man,  and  begin  to  feel  and  look 
as  if  you  believed  yourself  as  much  above  common 
people  as  that  personage  of  whom  Tourgueneff  says 
that  "he  had  the  air  of  his  own  statue  erected  by 
national  subscription." 

— r-  The  Master  paused  and  fell  into  a  deep  thinking 
fit,  as  he  does  sometimes.  He  had  had  his  own  say, 
it  is  true,  but  he  had  established  his  character  as  a 
listener  to  my  own  perfect  satisfaction,  for  I,  too,  was 
conscious  of  having  preached  with  a  certain  prolixity. 

—  I  am  always  troubled  when  I  think  of  my  very 
limited  mathematical  capacities.  It  seems  as  if  every 
well-organized  mind  should  be  able  to  handle  numbers 
and  quantities  through  their  symbols  to  an  indefinite 
extent;  and  yet,  I  am  puzzled  by  what  seems  to  a 
clever  boy  with  a  turn  for  calculation  as  plain  as 
counting  his  fingers.  I  don't  think  any  man  feels 
well  grounded  in  knowledge  unless  he  has  a  good  basis 
of  mathematical  certainties,  and  knows  how  to  deal 
with  them  and  apply  them  to  every  branch  of  know- 
ledge where  they  can  come  in  to  advantage. 

Our  Young  Astronomer  is  known  for  his  mathemat- 
ical ability,  and  I  asked  him  what  he  thought  was  the 
difficulty  in  the  minds  that  are  weak  in  that  particular 
direction,  while  they  may  be  of  remarkable  force  in 
other  provinces  of  thought,  as  is  notoriously  the  case 
with  some  men  of  great  distinction  in  science. 

The  young  man  smiled  and  wrote  a  few  letters  and 
symbols  on  a  piece  of  paper.  —  Can  you  see  through 
that  at  once?  —  he  said. 

I  puzzled  over  it  for  some  minutes  and  gave  it  up. 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.    105 

—  He  said,  as  I  returned  it  to  him,  You  have  heard 
military  men  say  that  such  a  person  had  an  eye  for 
country,  have  n't  you?     One  man  will  note  all  the 
landmarks,  keep  the  points  of  compass  in  his  head, 
observe  how  the  streams  run,  in  short,  carry  a  map  in 
his  brain  of  any  region  that  he  has  marched  or  gal- 
loped through.     Another  man  takes  no  note  of  any 
of  these  things;  always  follows  somebody  else's  lead 
when  he  can,  and  gets  lost  if  he  is  left  to  himself ;  a 
mere  owl  in  daylight.     Just  so  some  men  have  an  eye 
for  an  equation,  and  would  read  at  sight  the  one  that 
you  puzzled  over.     It  is  told  of  Sir  Isaac  Newton  that 
he  required  no  demonstration  of  the  propositions  in 
Euclid's  Geometry,  but  as  soon  as  he  had  read  the 
enunciation  the  solution  or  answer  was  plain  at  once. 
The  power  may  be  cultivated,  but  I  think  it  is  to 
a  great  degree  a  natural  gift,  as  is  the  eye  for  color, 
as  is  the  ear  for  music. 

—  I  think  I  could  read  equations  readily  enough, 
—  I  said,  —  if  I  could  only  keep  my  attention  fixed 
on  them ;  and  I  think  I  could  keep  my  attention  on 
them  if  I  were  imprisoned  in  a  thinking-cell,  such  as 
the  Creative  Intelligence  shapes  for  its  studio  when  at 
its  divinest  work. 

The  young  man's  lustrous  eyes  opened  very  widely 
as  he  asked  me  to  explain  what  I  meant. 

—  What  is  the  Creator's  divinest  work?  —  I  asked. 

—  Is  there  anything  more  divine  than  the  sun ;  than 
a  sun  with  its  planets  revolving  about   it,  warming 
them,  lighting  them,  and  giving  conscious  life  to  the 
beings  that  move  on  them? 

— You  agree,  then,  that  conscious  life  is  the  grand 
aim  and  end  of  all  this  vast  mechanism.  Without  life 
that  could  feel  and  enjoy,  the  splendors  and  creative 


106    THE  POET  AT  THE  BKEAKFAST-TABLE. 

energy  would  all  be  thrown  away.  You  know  Har- 
vey's saying,  omnia  animalia  ex  ovo,  —  all  animals 
come  from  an  egg.  You  ought  to  know  it,  for  the 
great  controversy  going  on  about  spontaneous  gen- 
eration has  brought  it  into  special  prominence  lately. 
Well,  then,  the  ovum,  the  egg,  is,  to  speak  in  human 
phrase,  the  Creator's  more  private  and  sacred  studio? 
for  his  magnum  opus.  Now,  look  at  a  hen's  egg, 
which  is  a  convenient  one  to  study,  because  it  is  large 
enough  and  built  solidly  enough  to  look  at  and  handle 
easily.  That  would  be  the  form  I  would  choose  for 
my  thinking-cell.  Build  me  an  oval  with  smooth, 
translucent  walls,  and  put  me  in  the  centre  of  it  with 
Newton's  "Principia"  or  Kant's  "Kritik,"  and  I 
think  I  shall  develop  "an  eye  for  an  equation,"  as 
you  call  it,  and  a  capacity  for  an  abstraction. 

But  do  tell  me,  —  said  the  Astronomer,  a  little  in- 
credulously, —  what  there  is  in  that  particular  form 
which  is  going  to  help  you  to  be  a  mathematician  or 
a  metaphysician? 

—  It  is  n't  help  I  want,  it  is  removing  hindrances. 
I  don't  want  to  see  anything  to  draw  off  my  attention. 
I  don't  want  a  cornice,  or  an  angle,  or  anything  but 
a  containing  curve.  I  want  diffused  light  and  no 
single  luminous  centre  to  fix  my  eye,  and  so  distract 
my  mind  from  its  one  object  of  contemplation.  The 
metaphysics  of  attention  have  hardly  been  sounded  to 
their  depths.  The  mere  fixing  the  look  on  any  sin- 
gle object  for  a  long  time  may  produce  very  strange 
effects.  Gibbon's  well-known  story  of  the  monks  of 
Mount  Athos  and  their  contemplative  practice  is  often 
laughed  over,  but  it  has  a  meaning.  They  were  to 
shut  the  door  of  the  cell,  recline  the  beard  and  chin 
on  the  breast,  and  contemplate  the  abdominal  centre. 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BKEAKFAST-TABLE.    107 

"At  first  all  will  be  dark  and  comfortless;  but  if  you 
persevere  day  and  night,  you  will  feel  an  ineffable 
joy;  and  no  sooner  has  the  soul  discovered  the  place  of 
the  heart,  than  it  is  involved  in  a  mystic  and  ethereal 
light."  And  Mr.  Braid  produces  absolute  anaesthe- 
sia, so  that  surgical  operations  can  be  performed 
without  suffering  to  the  patient,  only  by  making  him 
fix  his  eyes  and  his  mind  on  a  single  object;  and  New- 
ton is  said  to  have  said,  as  you  remember,  "I  keep  the 
subject  constantly  before  me,  and  wait  till  the  first 
dawnings  open  slowly  by  little  and  little  into  a  full 
and  clear  light."  These  are  different,  but  certainly 
very  wonderful,  instances  of  what  can  be  done  by 
attention.  But  now  suppose  that  your  mind  is  in  its 
nature  discursive,  erratic,  subject  to  electric  attrac- 
tions and  repulsions,  volage ;  it  may  be  impossible 
for  you  to  compel  your  attention  except  by  taking 
away  all  external  disturbances.  I  think  the  poets 
have  an  advantage  and  a  disadvantage  as  compared 
with  the  steadier-going  people.  Life  is  so  vivid  to 
the  poet,  that  he  is  too  eager  to  seize  and  exhaust 
its  multitudinous  impressions.  Like  Sindbad  in  the 
valley  of  precious  stones,  he  wants  to  fill  his  pockets 
with  diamonds,  but,  lo !  there  is  a  great  ruby  like  a 
setting  sun  in  its  glory,  and  a  sapphire  that,  like  Bry- 
ant's blue  gentian,  seems  to  have  dropped  from  the 
cerulean  walls  of  heaven,  and  a  nest  of  pearls  that 
look  as  if  they  might  be  unhatched  angel's  eggs,  and 
so  he  hardly  knows  what  to  seize,  and  tries  for  too 
many,  and  comes  out  of  the  enchanted  valley  with 
more  gems  than  he  can  carry,  and  those  that  he  lets 
fall  by  the  wayside  we  call  his  poems.  You  may 
change  the  image  a  thousand  ways  to  show  you  how 
hard  it  is  to  make  a  mathematician  or  a  logician  out 


108     THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

of  a  poet.  He  carries  the  tropics  with  him  wherever 
he  goes ;  he  is  in  the  true  sense  filius  naturce,  and 
Nature  tempts  him,  as  she  tempts  a  child  walking 
through  a  garden  where  all  the  finest  fruits  are  hang- 
ing over  him  and  dropping  round  him,  where 

The  luscious  clusters  of  the  vine 
Upon  (his)  mouth  do  crush  their  wine, 
The  nectarine  and  curious  peach, 
Into  (his)  hands  themselves  do  reach  ; 

and  he  takes  a  bite  out  of  the  sunny  side  of  this  and 
the  other,  and,  ever  stimulated  and  never  satisfied,  is 
hurried  through  the  garden,  and,  before  he  knows  it, 
finds  himself  at  an  iron  gate  which  opens  outward, 
and  leaves  the  place  he  knows  and  loves  — 

—  For  one  he  will  perhaps  soon  learn  to  love  and 
know  better,  —  said  the  Master.  —  But  I  can  help  you 
out  with  another  comparison,  not  quite  so  poetical  as 
yours.     Why  did  not  you  think  of  a  railway-station, 
where  the  cars  stop  five  minutes  for  refreshments? 
Is  n't  that  a  picture  of  the  poet's  hungry  and  hur- 
ried feast  at  the  banquet  of  life?     The  traveller  flings 
himself  on  the  bewildering  miscellany  of   delicacies 
spread  before  him,  the  various  tempting  forms  of  am- 
brosia and  seducing  draughts  of  nectar,  with  the  same 
eager  hurry  and  restless  ardor  that  you  describe  in 
the  poet.     Dear  me  !     If  it  was  n't  for  All  aboard ! 
that  summons  of  the  deaf  conductor  which  tears  one 
away  from  his  half-finished  sponge-cake  and  coffee, 
how  I,  who  do  not  call  myself  a  poet,  but  only  a  ques- 
tioner, should  have  enjoyed  a  good  long  stop  —  say  a 
couple  of  thousand  years  —  at  this  way-station  on  the 
great  railroad  leading  to  the  unknown  terminus  ! 

—  You  say  you  are  not  a  poet,  —  I  said,  after  a  lit- 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BKEAKFAST-TABLE.     109 

tie  pause,  in  which  I  suppose  both  of  us  were  thinking 
where  the  great  railroad  would  land  us  after  carrying 
us  into  the  dark  tunnel,  the  farther  end  of  which  no 
man  has  seen  and  taken  a  return  train  to  bring  us 
news  about  it,  —  you  say  you  are  not  a  poet,  and  yet 
it  seems  to  me  you  have  some  of  the  elements  whicb 
go  to  make  one. 

—  I  don't  think  you  mean  to  flatter  me,  —  the  Mas- 
ter answered,  —  and,  what  is  more,  for  I  am  not 
afraid  to  be  honest  with  you,  I  don't  think  you  do 
flatter  me.  I  have  taken  the  inventory  of  my  facul- 
ties as  calmly  as  if  I  were  an  appraiser.  I  have  some 
of  the  qualities,  perhaps  I  may  say  many  of  the  qual- 
ities, that  make  a  man  a  poet,  and  yet  I  am  not  one. 
And  in  the  course  of  a  pretty  wide  experience  of  men 
—  and  women  —  (the  Master  sighed,  I  thought,  but 
perhaps  I  was  mistaken)  —  I  have  met  a  good  many 
poets  who  were  not  rhymesters  and  a  good  many 
rhymesters  who  were  not  poets.  So  I  am  only  one  of 
the  Voiceless,  that  I  remember  one  of  you  singers 
had  some  verses  about.  I  think  there  is  a  little  music 
in  me,  but  it  has  not  found  a  voice,  and  it  never  will. 
If  I  should  confess  the  truth,  there  is  no  mere  earthly 
immortality  that  I  envy  so  much  as  the  poet's.  If 
your  name  is  to  live  at  all,  it  is  so  much  more  to  have 
it  live  in  people's  hearts  than  only  in  their  brains  !  I 
don't  know  that  one's  eyes  fill  with  tears  when  he 
thinks  of  the  famous  inventor  of  logarithms,  but  a 
song  of  Burns 's  or  a  hymn  of  Charles  Wesley's  goes 
straight  to  your  heart,  and  you  can't  help  loving  both 
of  them,  the  sinner  as  well  as  the  saint.  The  works 
of  other  men  live,  but  their  personality  dies  out  of 
their  labors ;  the  poet,  who  reproduces  himself  in  his 
creation,  as  no  other  artist  does  or  can,  goes  down  to 


110    THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

posterity  with  all  his  personality  blended  with  what- 
ever is  imperishable  in  his  song.  We  see  nothing  of 
the  bees  that  built  the  honeycomb  and  stored  it  with 
its  sweets,  but  we  can  trace  the  veining  in  the  wings 
of  insects  that  flitted  through  the  forests  which  are 
now  coal-beds,  kept  unchanging  in  the  amber  that 
holds  them ;  and  so  the  passion  of  Sappho,  the  tender- 
ness of  Simonides,  the  purity  of  holy  George  Herbert, 
the  lofty  contemplativeness  of  James  Shirley,  are  be- 
fore us  to-day  as  if  they  were  living,  in  a  few  tears  of 
amber  verse.  It  seems,  when  one  reads, 

"  Sweet  day  !  so  cool,  so  calm,  so  bright," 
or, 

"  The  glories  of  our  birth  and  state," 

as  if  it  were  not  a  very  difficult  matter  to  gain  immor- 
tality, —  such  an  immortality  at  least  as  a  perishable 
language  can  give.  A  single  lyric  is  enough,  if  one 
can  only  find  in  his  soul  and  finish  in  his  intellect  one 
of  those  jewels  fit  to  sparkle  "on  the  stretched  fore- 
finger of  all  time."  A  coin,  a  ring,  a  string  of  verses. 
These  last,  and  hardly  anything  else  does.  Every 
century  is  an  overloaded  ship  that  must  sink  at  last 
with  most  of  its  cargo.  The  small  portion  of  its  crew 
that  get  on  board  the  new  vessel  which  takes  them  off 
don't  pretend  to  save  a  great  many  of  the  bulky  arti- 
cles. But  they  must  not  and  will  not  leave  behind 
the  hereditary  jewels  of  the  race ;  and  if  you  have 
found  and  cut  a  diamond,  were  it  only  a  spark  with  a 
single  polished  facet,  it  will  stand  a  better  chance 
of  being  saved  from  the  wreck  than  anything,  no 
matter  what,  that  wants  much  room  for  stowage. 

The  pyramids  last,  it   is  true,  but  most  of  them 
have  forgotten  their  builders'  names.     But  the  ring  of 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.    Ill 

Thothmes  III.,  who  reigned  some  fourteen  hundred 
years  before  our  era,  before  Homer  sang,  before  the 
Argonauts  sailed,  before  Troy  was  built,  is  in  the 
possession  of  Lord  Ashburnham,  and  proclaims  the 
name  of  the  monarch  who  wore  it  more  than  three 
thousand  years  ago.  The  gold  coins  with  the  head  of 
Alexander  the  Great  are  some  of  them  so  fresh  one 
might  think  they  were  newer  than  much  of  the  silver 
currency  we  were  lately  handling.  As  we  have  been 
quoting  from  the  poets  this  morning,  I  will  follow 
the  precedent,  and  give  some  lines  from  an  epistle  of 
Pope  to  Addison  after  the  latter  had  written,  but  not 
yet  published,  his  Dialogue  on  Medals.  Some  of 
these  lines  have  been  lingering  in  my  memory  for  a 
great  many  years,  but  I  looked  at  the  original  the 
other  day  and  was  so  pleased  with  them  that  I  got 
them  by  heart.  I  think  you  will  say  they  are  singu- 
larly pointed  and  elegant. 

"  Ambition  sighed  ;  she  found  it  vain  to  trust 
The  faithless  column  and  the  crumbling  bust ; 
Huge  moles,  whose  shadows  stretched  from  shore  to  shore, 
Their  ruins  perished,  and  their  place  no  more  ! 
Convinced,  she  now  contracts  her  vast  design, 
And  all  her  triumphs  shrink  into  a  coin. 
A  narrow  orb  each  crowded  conquest  keeps, 
Beneath  her  palm  here  sad  Judsea  weeps  ; 
Now  scantier  limits  the  proud  arch  confine, 
And  scarce  are  seen  the  prostrate  Nile  or  Rhine  ; 
A  small  Euphrates  through  the  piece  is  rolled, 
And  little  eagles  wave  their  wings  in  gold." 

It  is  the  same  thing  in  literature.  Write  half  a 
dozen  folios  full  of  other  people's  ideas  (as  all  folios 
are  pretty  sure  to  be),  and  you  serve  as  ballast  to  the 
lower  shelves  of  a  library,  about  as  like  to  be  dis 


112    THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

turbed  as  the  kentledge  in  the  hold  of  a  ship.  Write 
a  story,  or  a  dozen  stories,  and  your  book  will  be  in 
demand  like  an  oyster  while  it  is  freshly  opened,  and 
after  that  —  The  highways  of  literature  are  spread 
over  with  the  shells  of  dead  novels,  each  of  which  has 
been  swallowed  at  a  mouthful  by  the  public,  and  is 
done  with.  But  write  a  volume  of  poems.  No  matter 
if  they  are  all  bad  but  one,  if  that  one  is  very  good. 
It  will  carry  your  name  down  to  posterity  like  the 
ring  of  Thothmes,  like  the  coin  of  Alexander.  I  don't 
suppose  one  would  care  a  great  deal  about  it  a  hun- 
dred or  a  thousand  years  after  he  is  dead,  but  I  don't 
feel  quite  sure.  It  seems  as  if,  even  in  heaven,  King 
David  might  remember  "The  Lord  is  my  Shepherd" 
with  a  certain  twinge  of  earthly  pleasure.  But  we 
don't  know,  we  don't  know. 

—  What  in  the  world  can  have  become  of  That  Boy 
and  his  popgun  while  all  this  somewhat  extended  ser- 
monizing was  going  on?  I  don't  wonder  you  ask,  be- 
loved Reader,  and  I  suppose  I  must  tell  you  how  we 
got  on  so  long  without  interruption.  Well,  the  plain 
truth  is,  the  youngster  was  contemplating  his  gastric 
centre,  like  the  monks  of  Mount  Athos,  but  in  a  less 
happy  state  of  mind  than  those  tranquil  recluses,  in 
consequence  of  indulgence  in  the  heterogeneous  assort- 
ment of  luxuries  procured  with  the  five-cent  piece 
given  him  by  the  kind-hearted  old  Master.  But  you 
need  not  think  I  am  going  to  tell  you  every  time  his 
popgun  goes  off,  making  a  Selah  of  him  whenever 
I  want  to  change  the  subject.  Occasionally  he  was 
ill-timed  in  his  artillery  practice  and  ignominiously 
rebuked,  sometimes  he  was  harmlessly  playful  and 
nobody  minded  him,  but  every  now  and  then  he  came 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.    113 

in  so  apropos  that  I  am  morally  certain  he  gets  a  hint 
from  somebody  who  watches  the  course  of  the  conver- 
sation, and  means  through  him  to  have  a  hand  in  it 
and  stop  any  of  us  when  we  are  getting  prosy.  But 
in  consequence  of  That  Boy's  indiscretion,  we  were 
without  a  check  upon  our  expansiveness,  and  ran  on 
in  the  way  you  have  observed  and  may  be  disposed 
to  find  fault  with. 

One  other  thing  the  Master  said  before  we  left  the 
table,  after  our  long  talk  of  that  day. 

—  I  have  been  tempted  sometimes,  —  said  he,  — 
to  envy  the  immediate  triumphs  of  the  singer.  He 
enjoys  all  that  praise  can  do  for  him  and  at  the  very 
moment  of  exerting  his  talent.  And  the  singing  wo- 
men !  Once  in  a  while,  in  the  course  of  my  life,  I 
have  found  myself  in  the  midst  of  a  tulip-bed  of  full- 
dressed,  handsome  women  in  all  their  glory,  and  when 
some  one  among  them  has  shaken  her  gauzy  wings, 
and  sat  down  before  the  piano,  and  then,  only  giving 
the  keys  a  soft  touch  now  and  then  to  support  her 
voice,  has  warbled  some  sweet,  sad  melody  intertwined 
with  the  longings  or  regrets  of  some  tender-hearted 
poet,  it  has  seemed  to  me  that  so  to  hush  the  rus- 
tling of  the  silks  and  silence  the  babble  of  the  buds, 
as  they  call  the  chicks  of  a  new  season,  and  light  up 
the  flame  of  romance  in  cold  hearts,  in  desolate  ones, 
in  old  burnt-out  ones,  —  like  mine,  I  was  going  to  say, 
but  I  won't,  for  it  isn't  so,  and  you  may  laugh  to 
hear  me  say  it  is  n't  so,  if  you  like,  —  was  perhaps 
better  than  to  be  remembered  a  few  hundred  years 
by  a  few  perfect  stanzas,  when  your  gravestone  is 
standing  aslant,  and  your  name  is  covered  over  with 
a  lichen  as  big  as  a  militia  colonel's  cockade,  and 


114    THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

nobody  knows  or  cares  enough  about  you  to  scrape  it 
off  and  set  the  tipsy  old  slate-stone  upright  again. 

—  I  said  nothing  in  reply  to  this,  for  I  was  thinking 
of  a  sweet  singer  to  whose  voice  I  had  listened  in  its 
first  freshness,  and  which  is  now  only  an  echo  in  my 
memory.  If  any  reader  of  the  periodical  in  which 
these  conversations  are  recorded  can  remember  so  far 
back  as  the  first  year  of  its  publication,  he  will  find 
among  the  papers  contributed  by  a  friend  not  yet 
wholly  forgotten  a  few  verses,  lively  enough  in  their 
way,  headed  "The  Boys."  The  sweet  singer  was  one 
of  this  company  of  college  classmates,  the  constancy 
of  whose  friendship  deserves  a  better  tribute  than  the 
annual  offerings,  kindly  meant,  as  they  are,  which 
for  many  years  have  not  been  wanting  at  their  social 
gatherings.  The  small  company  counts  many  noted 
personages  on  its  list,  as  is  well  known  to  those  who 
are  interested  in  such  local  matters,  but  it  is  not 
known  that  every  fifth  man  of  the  whole  number  now 
living  is  more  or  less  of  a  poet,  —  using  that  word 
with  a  generous  breadth  of  significance.  But  it 
should  seem  that  the  divine  gift  it  implies  is  more 
freely  dispensed  than  some  others,  for  while  there  are 
(or  were,  for  one  has  taken  his  Last  Degree)  eight 
musical  quills,  there  was  but  one  pair  of  lips  which 
could  claim  any  special  consecration  to  vocal  melody. 
Not  that  one  that  should  undervalue  the  half -recitative 
of  doubtful  barytones,  or  the  brilliant  escapades  of 
slightly  unmanageable  falsettos,  or  the  concentrated 
efforts  of  the  proprietors  of  two  or  three  effective 
notes,  who  may  be  observed  lying  in  wait  for  them, 
and  coming  down  on  them  with  all  their  might,  and 
the  look  on  their  countenances  of  "I  too  am  a  singer." 
But  the  voice  that  led  all,  and  that  all  loved  to  lis- 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.    115 

ten  to,  the  voice  that  was  at  once  full,  rich,  sweet,  pen- 
etrating, expressive,  whose  ample  overflow  drowned 
all  the  imperfections  and  made  up  for  all  the  short- 
comings of  the  others,  is  silent  henceforth  forevermore 
for  all  earthly  listeners. 

And  these  were  the  lines  that  one  of  "The  Boys," 
as  they  have  always  called  themselves  for  ever  so  many 
years,  read  at  the  first  meeting  after  the  voice  which 
had  never  failed  them  was  hushed  in  the  stillness  of 
death. 

J.  A. 
1871. 

One  memory  trembles  on  our  lips : 

It  throbs  in  every  breast  ; 
In  tear-dimmed  eyes,  in  mirth's  eclipse, 

The  shadow  stands  confessed. 

O  silent  voice,  that  cheered  so  long 

Our  manhood's  marching  day, 
Without  thy  breath  of  heavenly  song, 

How  weary  seems  the  way  ! 

Vain  every  pictured  phrase  to  tell 

Our  sorrowing  hearts'  desire  ; 
The  shattered  harp,  the  broken  shell, 

The  silent  unstrung  lyre  ; 

For  youth  was  round  us  while  he  sang  ; 

It  glowed  in  every  tone  ; 
With  bridal  chimes  the  echoes  rang, 

And  made  the  past  our  own. 

O  blissful  dream  !     Our  nursery  joys 

We  know  must  have  an  end, 
But  love  and  friendship^  broken  toys 

May  God's  good  angels  mend  1 


116    THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

The  cheering  smile,  the  voice  of  mirth 

And  laughter's  gay  surprise 
That  please  the  children  born  of  earth, 

Why  deem  that  Heaven  denies  ? 

Methinks  in  that  refulgent  sphere 

That  knows  not  sun  or  moon, 
An  earth-born  saint  might  long  to  hear 

One  verse  of  "  Bonny  Doon  "  ; 

Or  walking  through  the  streets  of  gold 

In  Heaven's  unclouded  light, 
His  lips  recall  the  song  of  old 

And  hum  "  The  sky  is  bright." 


And  can  we  smile  when  thou  art  dead  ? 

Ah,  brothers,  even  so  ! 
The  rose  of  summer  will  be  red, 

In  spite  of  winter's  snow. 

Thou  wouldst  not  leave  us  all  in  gloom 

Because  thy  song  is  still, 
Nor  blight  the  banquet-garland's  bloom 

With  grief's  untimely  chill. 

The  sighing  wintry  winds  complain,  — 
The  singing  bird  has  flown,  — 

Hark  !  heard  I  not  that  ringing  strain, 
That  clear  celestial  tone  ? 

How  poor  these  pallid  phrases  seem, 
How  weak  this  tinkling  line, 

As  warbles  through  my  waking  dream 
That  angel  voice  of  thine  ! 

Thy  requiem  asks  a  sweeter  lay  ; 

It  falters  on  my  tongue  ; 
For  all  we  vainly  strive  to  say, 

Thou  shouldst  thyself  have  sung  ! 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.     117 
V. 

I  fear  that  I  have  done  injustice  in  my  conversation 
and  my  report  of  it  to  a  most  worthy  and  promising 
young  man  whom  I  should  be  very  sorry  to  injure  in 
any  way.  Dr.  Benjamin  Franklin  got  hold  of  my 
account  of  my  visit  to  him,  and  complained  that  I  had 
made  too  much  of  the  expression  he  used.  He  did 
not  mean  to  say  that  he  thought  I  was  suffering  from 
the  rare  disease  he  mentioned,  but  only  that  the  color 
reminded  him  of  it.  It  was  true  that  he  had  shown 
me  various  instruments,  among  them  one  for  exploring 
the  state  of  a  part  by  means  of  a  puncture,  but  he  did 
not  propose  to  make  use  of  it  upon  my  person.  In 
short,  I  had  colored  the  story  so  as  to  make  him  look 
ridiculous. 

—  I  am  afraid  I  did,  — I  said,  — but  wasn't  I  col- 
ored myself  so  as  to  look  ridiculous?  I've  heard  it 
said  that  people  with  the  jaundice  see  everything  yel- 
low; perhaps  I  saw  things  looking  a  little  queerly, 
with  that  black  and  blue  spot  I  could  n't  account  for 
threatening  to  make  a  colored  man  and  brother  of  me. 
But  I  am  sorry  if  I  have  done  you  any  wrong.  I 
hope  you  won't  lose  any  patients  by  my  making  a  lit- 
tle fun  of  your  meters  and  scopes  and  contrivances. 
They  seem  so  odd  to  us  outside  people.  Then  the 
idea  of  being  bronzed  all  over  was  such  an  alarming 
suggestion.  But  I  did  not  mean  to  damage  your 
business,  which  I  trust  is  now  considerable,  and  I 
shall  certainly  come  to  you  again  if  I  have  need  of  the 
services  of  a  physician.  Only  don't  mention  the 
names  of  any  diseases  in  English  or  Latin  before  me 
next  time.  I  dreamed  about  cutis  cenea  half  the 
night  after  I  came  to  see  you. 


118    THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

Dr.  Benjamin  took  my  apology  very  pleasantly. 
He  did  not  want  to  be  touchy  about  it,  he  said,  but 
he  had  his  way  to  make  in  the  world,  and  found  it 
a  little  hard  at  first,  as  most  young  men  did.  People 
were  afraid  to  trust  them,  no  matter  how  much  they 
knew.  One  of  the  old  doctors  asked  him  to  come 
in  and  examine  a  patient's  heart  for  him  the  other 
day.  He  went  with  him  accordingly,  and  when  they 
stood  by  the  bedside,  he  offered  his  stethoscope  to  the 
old  doctor.  The  old  doctor  took  it  and  put  the 
wrong  end  to  his  ear  and  the  other  to  the  patient's 
chest,  and  kept  it  there  about  two  minutes,  looking 
all  the  time  as  wise  as  an  old  owl.  Then  he,  Dr. 
Benjamin,  took  it  and  applied  it  properly,  and  made  out 
where  the  trouble  was  in  no  time  at  all.  But  what 
was  the  use  of  a  young  man's  pretending  to  know  any- 
thing in  the  presence  of  an  old  owl?  I  saw  by  their 
looks,  he  said,  that  they  all  thought  /  used  the  stetho- 
scope wrong  end  up,  and  was  nothing  but  a  'prentice 
hand  to  the  old  doctor. 

—  I  am  much  pleased  to  say  that  since  Dr.  Benja- 
min has  had  charge  of  a  dispensary  district,  and  been 
visiting  forty  or  fifty  patients  a  day,  I  have  reason  to 
think  he  has  grown  a  great  deal  more  practical  than 
when  I  made  my  visit  to  his  office.  I  think  I  was 
probably  one  of  his  first  patients,  and  that  he  natu- 
rally made  the  most  of  me.  But  my  second  trial  was 
much  more  satisfactory.  I  got  an  ugly  cut  from  the 
carving-knife  in  an  affair  with  a  goose  of  iron  consti- 
tution in  which  I  came  off  second  best.  I  at  once 
adjourned  with  Dr.  Benjamin  to  his  small  office,  and 
put  myself  in  his  hands.  It  was  astonishing  to  see 
what  a  little  experience  of  miscellaneous  practice  had 
done  for  him,  He  did  not  ask  me  any  more  questions 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.    119 

about  my  hereditary  predispositions  on  the  paternal 
and  maternal  sides.  He  did  not  examine  me  with  the 
stethoscope  or  the  laryngoscope.  He  only  strapped 
up  my  cut,  and  informed  me  that  it  would  speedily 
get  well  by  the  "first  intention,"  —  an  odd  phrase 
enough,  but  sounding  much  less  formidable  than  cutis 
cenea. 

I  am  afraid  I  have  had  something  of  the  French 
prejudice  which  embodies  itself  in  the  maxim  "  young 
surgeon,  old  physician."  But  a  young  physician  who 
has  been  taught  by  great  masters  of  the  profession,  in 
ample  hospitals,  starts  in  his  profession  knowing  more 
than  some  old  doctors  have  learned  in  a  lifetime. 
Give  him  a  little  time  to  get  the  use  of  his  wits  in 
emergencies,  and  to  know  the  little  arts  that  do  so 
much  for  a  patient's  comfort,  —  just  as  you  give  a 
young  sailor  time  to  get  his  sea-legs  on  and  teach  his 
stomach  to  behave  itself,  —  and  he  will  do  well  enough. 

The  old  Master  knows  ten  times  more  about  this 
matter  and  about  all  the  professions,  as  he  does  about 
everything  else,  than  I  do.  My  opinion  is  that  he 
has  studied  two,  if  not  three,  of  these  professions  in 
a  regular  course.  I  don't  know  that  he  has  ever 
preached,  except  as  Charles  Lamb  said  Coleridge  al- 
ways did,  for  when  he  gets  the  bit  in  his  teeth  he  runs 
away  with  the  conversation,  and  if  he  only  took  a  text 
his  talk  would  be  a  sermon;  but  if  he  has  not 
preached,  he  has  made  a  study  of  theology,  as  many 
laymen  do.  I  know  he  has  some  shelves  of  medical 
books  in  his  library,  and  has  ideas  on  the  subject  of 
the  healing  art.  He  confesses  to  having  attended  law 
lectures  and  having  had  much  intercourse  with  law- 
yers. So  he  has  something  to  say  on  almost  any  sub- 
ject that  happens  to  come  up.  I  told  him  my  story 


120    THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

about  my  visit  to  the  young  doctor,  and  asked  him 
what  he  thought  of  youthful  practitioners  in  general 
and  of  Dr.  Benjamin  in  particular. 

I  '11  tell  you  what,  —  the  Master  said,  —  I  know 
something  about  these  young  fellows  that  come  home 
with  their  heads  full  of  "  science,"  as  they  call  it,  and 
stick  up  their  signs  to  tell  people  they  know  how  tc 
cure  their  headaches  and  stomach-aches.  Science  is 
a  first-rate  piece  of  furniture  for  a  man's  upper  cham- 
ber, if  he  has  common  sense  on  the  ground-floor. 
But  if  a  man  has  n't  got  plenty  of  good  common  sense, 
the  more  science  he  has  the  worse  for  his  patient. 

—  I  don't  know  that  I  see  exactly  how  it  is  worse 
for  the  patient,  —  I  said. 

—Well,  I  '11  tell  you,  and  you  '11  find  it 's  a  mighty 
simple  matter.  When  a  person  is  sick,  there  is  al- 
ways something  to  be  done  for  him,  and  done  at  once. 
If  it  is  only  to  open  or  shut  a  window,  if  it  is  only 
to  tell  him  to  keep  on  doing  just  what  he  is  doing 
already,  it  wants  a  man  to  bring  his  mind  right 
down  to  the  fact  of  the  present  case  and  its  immedi- 
ate needs.  Now  the  present  case,  as  the  doctor  sees 
it,  is  just  exactly  such  a  collection  of  paltry  individ- 
ual facts  as  never  was  before,  —  a  snarl  and  tangle 
of  special  conditions  which  it  is  his  business  to  wind 
as  much  thread  out  of  as  he  can.  It  is  a  good  deal  as 
when  a  painter  goes  to  take  the  portrait  of  any  sitter 
who  happens  to  send  for  him.  He  has  seen  just  such 
noses  and  just  such  eyes  and  just  such  mouths,  but  he 
never  saw  exactly  such  a  face  before,  and  his  business 
is  with  that  and  no  other  person's,  — with  the  features 
of  the  worthy  father  of  a  family  before  him,  and  not 
with  the  portraits  he  has  seen  in  galleries  or  books, 
or  Mr.  Copley's  grand  pictures  of  the  fine  old  Tories, 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.    121 

or  the  Apollos  and  Jupiters  of  Greek  sculpture.  It 
is  the  same  thing  with  the  patient.  His  disease  has 
features  of  its  own ;  there  never  was  and  never  will  be 
another  case  in  all  respects  exactly  like  it.  If  a  doctor 
has  science  without  common  sense,  he  treats  a  fever, 
but  not  this  man's  fever.  If  he  has  common  sense 
without  science,  he  treats  this  man's  fever  without 
knowing  the  general  laws  that  govern  all  fevers  and 
all  vital  movements.  I  '11  tell  you  what  saves  these 
last  fellows.  They  go  for  weakness  whenever  they 
see  it,  with  stimulants  and  strengthened,  and  they  go 
for  overaction,  heat,  and  high  pulse,  and  the  rest, 
with  cooling  and  reducing  remedies.  That  is  three 
quarters  of  medical  practice.  The  other  quarter  wants 
science  and  common  sense  too.  But  the  men  that 
have  science  only,  begin  too  far  back,  and,  before  they 
get  as  far  as  the  case  in  hand,  the  patient  has  very 
likely  gone  to  visit  his  deceased  relatives.  You  re- 
member Thomas  Prince's  "Chronological  History  of 
New  England,"  I  suppose?  He  begins,  you  recollect, 
with  Adam,  and  has  to  work  down  five  thousand  six 
hundred  and  twenty-four  years  before  he  gets  to  the 
Pilgrim  fathers  and  the  Mayflower.  It  was  all  very 
well,  only  it  did  n't  belong  there,  but  got  in  the  way 
of  something  else.  So  it  is  with  "  science  "  out  of 
place.  By  far  the  larger  part  of  the  facts  of  structure 
and  function  you  find  in  the  books  of  anatomy  and 
physiology  have  no  immediate  application  to  the  daily 
duties  of  the  practitioner.  You  must  learn  systemat- 
ically, for  all  that ;  it  is  the  easiest  way  and  the  only 
way  that  takes  hold  of  the  memory,  except  mere  em- 
pirical repetition,  like  that  of  the  handicraftsman. 
Did  you  ever  see  one  of  those  Japanese  figures  with 
the  points  for  acupuncture  marked  upon  it? 


122    THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

—  1  had  to  own  that  my  schooling   had   left   out 
that  piece  of  information. 

Well,  I  '11  tell  you  about  it.  You  see  they  have  a 
way  of  pushing  long,  slender  needles  into  you  for  the 
cure  of  rheumatism  and  other  complaints,  and  it  seems 
there  is  a  choice  of  spots  for  the  operation,  though  it  is 
very  strange  how  little  mischief  it  does  in  a  good  many 
places  one  would  think  unsafe  to  meddle  with.  So 
they  had  a  doll  made,  and  marked  the  spots  where 
they  had  put  in  needles  without  doing  any  harm. 
They  must  have  had  accidents  from  sticking  the  nee- 
dles into  the  wrong  places  now  and  then,  but  I  sup- 
pose they  did  n't  say  a  great  deal  about  those.  After 
a  time,  say  a  few  centuries  of  experience,  they  had 
their  doll  all  spotted  over  with  safe  places  for  sticking 
in  the  needles.  That  is  their  way  of  registering  prac- 
tical knowledge.  We,  on  the  other  hand,  study  the 
structure  of  the  body  as  a  whole,  systematically,  and 
have  no  difficulty  at  all  in  remembering  the  track  of 
the  great  vessels  and  nerves,  and  knowing  just  what 
tracks  will  be  safe  and  what  unsafe.  It  is  just  the 
same  thing  with  the  geologists.  Here  is  a  man  close 
by  us  boring  for  water  through  one  of  our  ledges,  be- 
cause somebody  else  got  water  somewhere  else  in  that 
way;  and  a  person  who  knows  geology  or  ought  to 
know  it,  because  he  has  given  his  life  to  it,  tells  me  he 
might  as  well  bore  there  for  lager-beer  as  for  water. 

—  I  thought  we  had  had  enough  of  this  particular 
matter,  and  that  I  should  like  to  hear  what  the  Master 
had  to  say  about  the  three  professions  he  knew  some- 
thing about,  each  compared  with  the  others. 

What  is  your  general  estimate  of  doctors,  lawyers, 
and  ministers?  —  said  I. 

—  Wait  a  minute,  till  I  have  got  through  with  your 


THE  ^OET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.          123 

first  question,  —  said  the  Master.  —  One  thing  at  a 
time.  You  asked  me  about  the  young  doctors,  and 
about  our  young  doctor.  They  come  home  tres  bien 
chausses,  as  a  Frenchman  would  say,  mighty  well 
shod  with  professional  knowledge.  But  when  they 
begin  walking  round  among  their  poor  patients,  — • 
they  don't  commonly  start  with  millionnaires,  — they 
find  that  their  new  shoes  of  scientific  acquirements 
have  got  to  be  broken  in  just  like  a  pair  of  boots  or 
brogans.  I  don't  know  that  I  have  put  it  quite 
strong  enough.  Let  me  try  again.  You've  seen 
those  fellows  at  the  circus  that  get  up  on  horseback 
so  big  that  you  wonder  how  they  could  climb  into  the 
saddle.  But  pretty  soon  they  throw  off  their  outside 
coat,  and  the  next  minute  another  one,  and  then  the 
one  under  that,  and  so  they  keep  peeling  off  one  gar- 
ment after  another  till  people  begin  to  look  queer  and 
think  they  are  going  too  far  for  strict  propriety. 
Well,  that  is  the  way  a  fellow  with  a  real  practical 
turn  serves  a  good  many  of  his  scientific  wrappers,  — 
flings  'em  off  for  other  people  to  pick  up,  and  goes 
right  at  the  work  of  curing  stomach-aches  and  all  the 
other  little  mean  unscientific  complaints  that  make  up 
the  larger  part  of  every  doctor's  business.  I  think 
our  Dr.  Benjamin  is  a  worthy  young  man,  and  if  you 
are  in  need  of  a  doctor  at  any  time  I  hope  you  will  go 
to  him ;  and  if  you  come  off  without  harm,  I  will  — 
recommend  some  other  friend  to  try  him. 

—  I  thought  he  was  going  to  say  he  would  try  him 
in  his  own  person,  but  the  Master  is  not  fond  of  com- 
mitting himself. 

Now,  I  will  answer  your  other  question,  he  said.  — • 
The  lawyers  are  the  cleverest  men,  the  ministers  are 
the  most  learned,  and  the  doctors  are  the  most  sensible. 


124    THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

The  lawyers  are  a  picked  lot,  "first  scholars"  and 
the  like,  but  their  business  is  as  unsympathetic  as 
Jack  Ketch's.  There  is  nothing  humanizing  in  their 
relations  with  their  fellow-creatures.  They  go  for  the 
side  that  retains  them.  They  defend  the  man  they 
know  to  be  a  rogue,  and  not  very  rarely  throw  suspi- 
cion on  the  man  they  know  to  be  innocent.  Mind  you, 
I  am  not  finding  fault  with  them ;  every  side  of  a  case 
has  a  right  to  the  best  statement  it  admits  of ;  but  I 
say  it  does  not  tend  to  make  them  sympathetic. 
Suppose  in  a  case  of  Fever  vs.  Patient,  the  doctor 
should  side  with  either  party  according  to  whether 
the  old  miser  or  his  expectant  heir  was  his  employer. 
Suppose  the  minister  should  side  with  the  Lord  or  the 
Devil,  according  to  the  salary  offered  and  other  inci- 
dental advantages,  where  the  soul  of  a  sinner  was  in 
question.  You  can  see  what  a  piece  of  work  it  would 
make  of  their  sympathies.  But  the  lawyers  are 
quicker  witted  than  either  of  the  other  professions, 
and  abler  men  generally.  They  are  good-natured,  or, 
if  they  quarrel,  their  quarrels  are  above-board.  I 
don't  think  they  are  as  accomplished  as  the  ministers, 
but  they  have  a  way  of  cramming  with  special  know- 
ledge for  a  case  which  leaves  a  certain  shallow  sedi- 
ment of  intelligence  in  their  memories  about  a  good 
many  things.  They  are  apt  to  talk  law  in  mixed 
company,  and  they  have  a  way  of  looking  round  when 
they  make  a  point,  as  if  they  were  addressing  a  jury, 
that  is  mighty  aggravating,  as  I  once  had  occasion  to 
see  when  one  of  'em,  and  a  pretty  famous  one,  put  me 
on  the  witness-stand  at  a  dinner-party  once. 

The  ministers  come  next  in  point  of  talent.  They 
are  far  more  curious  and  widely  interested  outside 
of  their  own  calling  than  either  of  the  other  profes- 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.    125 

sions.  I  like  to  talk  with  'em.  They  are  interest- 
ing men,  full  of  good  feelings,  hard  workers,  always 
foremost  in  good  deeds,  and  on  the  whole  the  most 
efficient  civilizing  class,  working  downwards  from 
knowledge  to  ignorance,  that  is,  —  not  so  much  up- 
wards, perhaps,  —  that  we  have.  The  trouble  is,  that 
so  many  of  'em  work  in  harness,  and  it  is  pretty  sure 
to  chafe  somewhere.  They  feed  us  on  canned  meats 
mostly.  They  cripple  our  instincts  and  reason,  and 
give  us  a  crutch  of  doctrine.  I  have  talked  with  a 
great  many  of  'em  of  all  sorts  of  belief,  and  I  don't 
think  they  are  quite  so  easy  in  their  minds,  the  greater 
number  of  them,  nor  so  clear  in  their  convictions,  as 
one  would  think  to  hear  'em  lay  down  the  law  in  the 
pulpit.  They  used  to  lead  the  intelligence  of  their 
parishes;  now  they  do  pretty  well  if  they  keep  up 
with  it,  and  they  are  very  apt  to  lag  behind  it.  Then 
they  must  have  a  colleague.  The  old  minister  thinks 
he  can  hold  to  his  old  course,  sailing  right  into  the 
wind's  eye  of  human  nature,  as  straight  as  that  fa- 
mous old  skipper  John  Bunyan ;  the  young  minister 
falls  off  three  or  four  points  and  catches  the  breeze  that 
left  the  old  man's  sails  all  shivering.  By  and  by  the 
congregation  will  get  ahead  of  him,  and  then  it  must 
have  another  new  skipper.  The  priest  holds  his  own 
pretty  well ;  the  minister  is  coming  down  every  gener- 
ation nearer  and  nearer  to  the  common  level  of  the 
useful  citizen,  —  no  oracle  at  all,  but  a  man  of  more 
than  average  moral  instincts,  who,  if  he  knows  any° 
thing,  knows  how  little  he  knows.  The  ministers  are 
good  talkers,  only  the  struggle  between  nature  and 
grace  makes  some  of  'em  a  little  awkward  occasion- 
ally. The  women  do  their  best  to  spoil  'em,  as  they 
do  the  poets ;  you  find  it  very  pleasant  to  be  spoiled, 


126     THE  POET  AT  THE  BKEAKFAST-TABLE. 

no  doubt;  so  do  they.  Now  and  then  one  of  'em 
goes  over  the  dam;  no  wonder,  they  're  always  in  the 
rapids. 

By  this  time  our  three  ladies  had  their  faces  all 
turned  toward  the  speaker,  like  the  weathercocks  in 
a  northeaster,  and  I  thought  it  best  to  switch  off  the 
talk  on  to  another  rail. 

How  about  the  doctors?  —  I  said. 

—  Theirs  is  the  least  learned  of  the  professions,  in 
this  country  at  least.  They  have  not  half  the  general 
culture  of  the  lawyers,  nor  a  quarter  of  that  of  the 
ministers.  I  rather  think,  though,  they  are  more 
agreeable  to  the  common  run  of  people  than  the  men 
with  black  coats  or  the  men  with  green  bags.  People 
can  swear  before  'em  if  they  want  to,  and  they  can't 
very  well  before  ministers.  I  don't  care  whether  they 
want  to  swear  or  not,  they  don't  want  to  be  on  their 
good  behavior.  Besides,  the  minister  has  a  little 
smack  of  the  sexton  about  him ;  he  comes  when  people 
are  in  extremis,  but  they  don't  send  for  him  every 
time  they  make  a  slight  moral  slip,  —  tell  a  lie  for 
instance,  or  smuggle  a  silk  dress  through  the  custom- 
house ;  but  they  call  in  the  doctor  when  a  child  is  cut- 
ting a  tooth  or  gets  a  splinter  in  its  finger.  So  it 
does  n't  mean  much  to  send  for  him,  only  a  pleasant 
chat  about  the  news  of  the  day ;  for  putting  the  baby 
to  rights  doesn't  take  long.  Besides,  everybody 
doesn't  like  to  talk  about  the  next  world;  people  are 
modest  in  their  desires,  and  find  this  world  as  good 
as  they  deserve ;  but  everybody  loves  to  talk  physic. 
Everybody  loves  to  hear  of  strange  cases ;  people  are 
eager  to  tell  the  doctor  of  the  wonderful  cures  they 
have  heard  of ;  they  want  to  know  what  is  the  matter 
with  somebody  or  other  who  is  said  to  be  suffering 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BKEAKFAST-TABLE.    127 

from  "a  complication  of  diseases,"  and  above  all  to 
get  a  hard  name,  Greek  or  Latin,  for  some  complaint 
which  sounds  altogether  too  commonplace  in  plain 
English.  If  you  will  only  call  a  headache  a  Cepha- 
lalgia,  it  acquires  dignity  at  once,  and  a  patient  be- 
comes rather  proud  of  it.  So  I  think  doctors  are 
generally  welcome  in  most  companies. 

In  old  times,  when  people  were  more  afraid  of  the 
Devil  and  of  witches  than  they  are  now,  they  liked  to 
have  a  priest  or  a  minister  somewhere  near  to  scare 
'em  off;  but  nowadays,  if  you  could  find  an  old  woman 
that  would  ride  round  the  room  on  a  broomstick,  Bar- 
num  would  build  an  amphitheatre  to  exhibit  her  in ; 
and  if  he  could  come  across  a  young  imp,  with  hoofs, 
tail,  and  budding  horns,  a  lineal  descendant  of  one  of 
those  "daemons  "  which  the  good  people  of  Gloucester 
fired  at,  and  were  fired  at  by  "for  the  best  part  of  a 
month  together  "  in  the  year  1692,  the  great  showman 
would  have  him  at  any  cost  for  his  museum  or  me- 
nagerie. Men  are  cowards,  sir,  and  are  driven  by  fear 
as  the  sovereign  motive.  Men  are  idolaters,  and  want 
something  to  look  at  and  kiss  and  hug,  or  throw  them- 
selves down  before ;  they  always  did,  they  always  will ; 
and  if  you  don't  make  it  of  wood,  you  must  make  it 
of  words,  which  are  just  as  much  used  for  idols  as 
promissory  notes  are  used  for  values.  The  ministers 
have  a  hard  time  of  it  without  bell  and  "book  and  holy 
water ;  they  are  dismounted  men  in  armor  since  Luther 
cut  their  saddle-girths,  and  you  can  see  they  are  qui- 
etly taking  off  one  piece  of  iron  after  another  until 
some  of  the  best  of  'em  are  fighting  the  devil  (not  the 
zoological  Devil  with  the  big  D)  with  the  sword  of 
the  Spirit,  and  precious  little  else  in  the  way  of  wea- 
pons of  offence  or  defence.  But  we  could  n't  get  on 


128    THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

without  the  spiritual  brotherhood,  whatever  became  of 
our  special  creeds.  There  is  a  genius  for  religion, 
just  as  there  is  for  painting  or  sculpture.  It  is  half- 
sister  to  the  genius  for  music,  and  has  some  of  the 
features  which  remind  us  of  earthly  love.  But  it  lifts 
us  all  by  its  mere  presence.  To  see  a  good  man  and 
hear  his  voice  once  a  week  would  be  reason  enough 
for  building  churches  and  pulpits.  —  The  Master 
stopped  all  at  once,  and  after  about  half  £  minute 
laughed  his  pleasant  laugh. 

What  is  it?  —  I  asked  him. 

I  was  thinking  of  the  great  coach  and  team  that  is 
carrying  us  fast  enough,  I  don't  know  but  too  fast, 
somewhere  or  other.  The  D.  D.'s  used  to  be  the 
leaders,  but  now  they  are  the  wheel-horses.  It 's 
pretty  hard  td  tell  how  much  they  pull,  but  we  know 
they  can  hold  back  like  the  — 

—  When  we're  going  down  hill, — I  said,  as 
neatly  as  if  I  had  been  a  High-Church  curate  trained 
to  snap  at  the  last  word  of  the  response,  so  that  you 
could  n't  wedge  in  the  tail  of  a  comma  between  the 
end  of  the  congregation's  closing  syllable  and  the  be- 
ginning of  the  next  petition.  They  do  it  well,  but  it 
always  spoils  my  devotion.  To  save  my  life,  I  can't 
help  watching  them,  as  I  watch  to  see  a  duck  dive 
at  the  flash  of  a  gun,  and  that  is  not  what  I  go 
to  church  for.  It  is  a  juggler's  trick,  and  there  is 
no  more  religion  in  it  than  in  catching  a  ball  on 
the  fly. 

I  was  looking  at  our  Scheherezade  the  other  day, 
and  thinking  what  a  pity  it  was  that  she  had  never 
had  fair  play  in  the  world.  I  wish  I  knew  more  of 
her  history.  There  is  one  way  of  learning  it,  —  mak- 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.    129 

ing  love  to  her.  I  wonder  whether  she  would  let  me 
and  like  it.  It  is  an  absurd  thing,  and  I  ought  not 
to  confess,  but  I  tell  you  and  you  only,  Beloved,  my 
heart  gave  a  perceptible  jump  when  it  heard  the  whis- 
per of  that  possibility  overhead  !  Every  day  has  its 
ebb  and  flow,  but  such  a  thought  as  that  is  like  one 
of  those  tidal  waves  they  talk  about,  that  rolls  in  like 
a  great  wall  and  overtops  and  drowns  out  all  your 
landmarks,  and  you,  too,  if  you  don't  mind  what  you 
are  about  and  stand  ready  to  run  or  climb  or  swim. 
Not  quite  so  bad  as  that,  though,  this  time.  I  take 
an  interest  in  our  Scheherezade.  I  am  glad  she 
did  n't  smile  on  the  pipe  and  the  Bohemian-looking 
fellow  that  finds  the  best  part  of  his  life  in  sucking  at 
it.  A  fine  thing,  is  n't  it,  for  a  young  woman  to 
marry  a  man  who  will  hold  her 

"  Something  better  than  his  dog,  a  little  dearer  than  his  horse," 

but  not  quite  so  good  as  his  meerschaum  ?  It  is  n't 
for  me  to  throw  stones,  though,  who  have  been  a  Ni- 
cotian a  good  deal  more  than  half  my  days.  Cigar- 
stump  out  now,  and  consequently  have  become  very 
bitter  on  more  persevering  sinners.  I  say  I  take  an 
interest  in  our  Scheherezade,  but  I  rather  think  it  is 
more  paternal  than  anything  else,  though  my  heart 
did  give  that  jump.  It  has  jumped  a  good  many 
times  without  anything  very  remarkable  coming  of  it. 
This  visit  to  the  Observatory  is  going  to  bring  us 
all,  or  most  of  us,  together  in  a  new  way,  and  it 
would  n't  be  very  odd  if  some  of  us  should  become 
better  acquainted  than  we  ever  have  been.  There  is 
a  chance  for  the  elective  affinities.  What  tremendous 
forces  they  are,  if  two  subjects  of  them  come  within 
range!  There  lies  a  bit  of  iron.  All  the  dynamic 


130    THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

agencies  of  the  universe  are  pledged  to  hold  it  just  in 
that  position,  and  there  it  will  lie  until  it  becomes  a 
heap  of  red-brown  rust.  .  But  see,  I  hold  a  magnet  to 
it,  —  it  looks  to  you  like  just  such  a  bit  of  iron  as  the 
other,  —  and  lo  !  it  leaves  them  all,  —  the  tugging  of 
the  mighty  earth;  of  the  ghostly  moon  that  walks  in 
white,  trailing  the  snaky  waves  of  the  ocean  after  her ; 
of  the  awful  sun,  twice  as  large  as  a  sphere  that  the 
whole  orbit  of  the  moon  would  but  just  girdle,  —  it 
leaves  the  wrestling  of  all  their  forces,  which  are  at 
a  dead  lock  with  each  other,  all  fighting  for  it,  and 
springs  straight  to  the  magnet.  What  a  lucky  thing 
it  is  for  well-conducted  persons  that  the  maddening 
elective  affinities  don't  come  into  play  in  full  force 
very  often ! 

I  suppose  I  am  making  a  good  deal  more  of  our 
prospective  visit  than  it  deserves.  It  must  be  because 
I  have  got  it  into  my  head  that  we  are  bound  to  have 
some  kind  of  sentimental  outbreak  amongst  us,  and 
that  this  will  give  a  chance  for  advances  on  the  part 
of  anybody  disposed  in  that  direction.  A  little 
change  of  circumstance  often  hastens  on  a  movement 
that  has  been  long  in  preparation.  A  chemist  will 
show  you  a  flask  containing  a  clear  liquid;  he  will 
give  it  a  shake  or  two,  and  the  whole  contents  of  the 
flask  will  become  solid  in  an  instant.  Or  you  may 
lay  a  little  heap  of  iron-filings  on  a  sheet  of  paper 
with  a  magnet  beneath  it,  and  they  will  be  quiet 
enough  as  they  are,  but  give  the  ptaper  a  slight  jar 
and  the  specks  of  metal  will  suddenly  find  their  way 
to  the  north  or  the  south  pole  of  the  magnet  and  take 
a  definite  shape  not  unpleasing  to  contemplate,  and 
curiously  illustrating  the  laws  of  attraction,  antago- 
nism, and  average,  by  which  the  worlds,  conscious  and 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.    131 

unconscious,  are  alike  governed.  So  with  our  little 
party,  with  any  little  party  of  persons  who  have  got 
used  to  each  other ;  leave  them  undisturbed  and  they 
might  remain  in  a  state  of  equilibrium  forever;  but 
let  anything  give  them  a  shake  or  a  jar,  and  the  long- 
striving  but  hindered  affinities  come  all  at  once  into 
play  and  finish  the  work  of  a  year  in  five  minutes. 

We  were  all  a  good  deal  excited  by  the  anticipation 
of  this  visit.  The  Capitalist,  who  for  the  most  part 
keeps  entirely  to  himself,  seemed  to  take  an  interest 
in  it  and  joined  the  group  in  the  parlor  who  were 
making  arrangements  as  to  the  details  of  the  eventful 
expedition,  which  was  very  soon  to  take  place.  The 
Young  Girl  was  full  of  enthusiasm ;  she  is  one  of  those 
young  persons,  I  think,  who  are  impressible,  and  of 
necessity  depressible  when  their  nervous  systems  are 
overtasked,  but  elastic,  recovering  easily  from  mental 
worries  and  fatigues,  and  only  wanting  a  little  change 
of  their  conditions  to  get  back  their  bloom  and  cheer- 
fulness. I  could  not  help  being  pleased  to  see  how 
much  of  the  child  was  left  in  her,  after  all  the  drudg- 
ery she  had  been  through.  What  is  there  that  youth 
will  not  endure  and  triumph  over?  Here  she  was; 
her  story  for  the  week  was  done  in  good  season ;  she 
had  got  rid  of  her  villain  by  a  new  and  original  ca- 
tastrophe; she  had  received  a  sum  of  money  for  an 
extra  string  of  verses, —  painfully  small,  it  is  true,  but 
it  would  buy  her  a  certain  ribbon  she  wanted  for  the 
great  excursion;  and  now  her  eyes  sparkled  so  that 
I  forgot  how  tired  and  hollow  they  sometimes  looked 
when  she  had  been  sitting  up  half  the  night  over  her 
endless  manuscript. 

The  morning  of  the  day  we  had  looked  forward  to 
promised  as  good  an  evening  as  we  could  wish.  The 


132    THE  POET  AT  THE  BKEAKFAST-TABLE. 

Capitalist,  whose  courteous  and  bland  demeanor  would 
never  have  suggested  the  thought  that  he  was  a  robber 
and  an  enemy  of  his  race,  who  was  to  be  trampled 
underfoot  by  the  beneficent  regenerators  of  the  social 
order  as  preliminary  to  the  universal  reign  of  peace 
on  earth  and  good-will  to  men,  astonished  us  all  with 
a  proposal  to  escort  the  three  ladies  and  procure  a  car- 
riage for  their  conveyance.  The  Lady  thanked  him 
in  a  very  cordial  way,  but  said  she  thought  nothing 
of  the  walk.  The  Landlady  looked  disappointed  at 
this  answer.  For  her  part  she  was  on  her  legs  all  day 
and  should  be  glad  enough  to  ride,  if  so  be  he  was 
going  to  have  a  carriage  at  any  rate.  It  would  be  a 
sight  pleasanter  than  to  trudge  afoot,  but  she  would  n't 
have  him  go  to  the  expense  on  her  account.  —  Don't 
mention  it,  madam,  —  said  the  Capitalist,  in  a  gen- 
erous glow  of  enthusiasm.  As  for  the  Young  Girl, 
she  did  not  often  get  a  chance  for  a  drive,  and  liked 
the  idea  of  it  for  its  own  sake,  as  children  do,  and 
she  insisted  that  the  Lady  should  go  in  the  carriage 
with  her.  So  it  was  settled  that  the  Capitalist  should 
take  the  three  ladies  in  a  carriage,  and  the  rest  of  us 
go  on  foot. 

The  evening  behaved  as  it  was  bound  to  do  on  so 
momentous  an  occasion.  The  Capitalist  was  dressed 
with  almost  suspicious  nicety.  We  pedestrians  could 
not  help  waiting  to  see  them  off,  and  I  thought  he 
handed  the  ladies  into  the  carriage  with  the  air  of  a 
French  marquis. 

I  walked  with  Dr.  Benjamin  and  That  Boy,  and  we 
had  to  keep  the  little  imp  on  the  trot  a  good  deal  of 
the  way  in  order  not  to  be  too  long  behind  the  car- 
riage party.  The  Member  of  the  Haouse  walked  with 
our  two  dummies,  —  I  beg  their  pardon,  I  mean  the 
Register  of  Deeds  and  the  Salesman. 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BKEAKFAST-TABLE.    133 

The  Man  of  Letters,  hypothetically  so  called, 
walked  by  himself,  smoking  a  short  pipe  which  was 
very  far  from  suggesting  the  spicy  breezes  that  blow 
soft  from  Ceylon's  isle. 

I  suppose  everybody  who  reads  this  paper  has  vis- 
ited one  or  more  observatories,  and  of  course  knows 
all  about  them.  But  as  it  may  hereafter  be  translated 
into  some  foreign  tongue  and  circulated  among  bar- 
barous, but  rapidly  improving  people,  people  who 
have  as  yet  no  astronomers  among  them,  it  may  be 
well  to  give  a  little  notion  of  what  kind  of  place  an 
observatory  is. 

To  begin  then :  a  deep  and  solid  stone  foundation 
is  laid  in  the  earth,  and  a  massive  pier  of  masonry  is 
built  up  on  it.  A  heavy  block  of  granite  forms  the 
summit  of  this  pier,  and  on  this  block  rests  the  equa- 
torial telescope.  Around  this  structure  a  circular 
tower  is  built,  with  two  or  more  floors  which  come 
close  up  to  the  pier,  but  do  not  touch  it  at  any  point. 
It  is  crowned  with  a  hemispherical  dome,  which,  I  may 
remark,  half  realizes  the  idea  of  my  egg-shell  studio. 
This  dome  is  cleft  from  its  base  to  its  summit  by  a 
narrow,  ribbon-like  opening,  through  which  is  seen 
the  naked  sky.  It  revolves  on  cannon-balls,  so  easily 
that  a  single  hand  can  move  it,  and  thus  the  opening 
may  be  turned  towards  any  point  of  the  compass. 
As  the  telescope  can  be  raised  or  depressed  so  as  to 
be  directed  to  any  elevation  from  the  horizon  to  the 
zenith,  and  turned  around  the  entire  circle  with  the 
dome,  it  can  be  pointed  to  any  part  of  the  heavens. 
But  as  the  star  or  other  celestial  object  is  always 
apparently  moving,  in  consequence  of  the  real  rota- 
tory movement  of  the  earth,  the  telescope  is  made  to 
follow  it  automatically  by  an  ingenious  clock-work 


134    THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

arrangement.  No  place,  short  of  the  temple  of  the 
living  God,  can  be  more  solemn.  The  jars  of  the 
restless  life  around  it  do  not  disturb  the  serene  in- 
telligence of  the  half-reasoning  apparatus.  Nothing 
can  stir  the  massive  pier  but  the  shocks  that  shake 
the  solid  earth  itself.  When  an  earthquake  thrills  the 
planet,  the  massive  turret  shudders  with  the  shudder- 
ing  rocks  on  which  it  rests,  but  it  pays  no  heed  to  the 
wildest  tempest,  and  while  the  heavens  are  convulsed 
and  shut  from  the  eye  of  the  far-seeing  instrument  it 
waits  without  a  tremor  for  the  blue  sky  to  come  back. 
It  is  the  type  of  the  true  and  steadfast  man  of  the 
Roman  poet,  whose  soul  remains  unmoved  while  the 
firmament  cracks  and  tumbles  about  him.  It  is  the 
material  image  of  the  Christian;  his  heart  resting  on 
the  Rock  of  Ages,  his  eye  fixed  on  the  brighter  world 
above. 

I  did  not  say  all  this  while  we  were  looking  round 
among  these  wonders,  quite  new  to  many  of  us. 
People  don't  talk  in  straight-off  sentences  like  that. 
They  stumble  and  stop,  or  get  interrupted,  change  a 
word,  begin  again,  miss  connections  of  verbs  and 
nouns,  and  so  on,  till  they  blunder  out  their  meaning. 
But  I  did  let  fall  a  word  or  two,  showing  the  impres- 
sion the  celestial  laboratory  produced  upon  me.  I 
rather  think  I  must  own  to  the  "Rock  of  Ages  "  com- 
parison. Thereupon  the  "Man  of  Letters,"  so  called, 
took  his  pipe  from  his  mouth,  and  said  that  he  did  n't 
go  in  "for  sentiment  and  that  sort  of  thing.  Gush 
was  played  out." 

The  Member  of  the  Haouse,  who,  as  I  think,  is  not 
wanting  in  that  homely  good  sense  which  one  often 
finds  in  plain  people  from  the  huckleberry  districts, 
but  who  evidently  supposes  the  last  speaker  to  be  what 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BKEAKFAST-TABLE.    135 

he  calls  "a  tahlented  mahn,"  looked  a  little  puzzled. 
My  remark  seemed  natural  and  harmless  enough  to 
him,  I  suppose,  but  I  had  been  distinctly  snubbed, 
and  the  Member  of  the  Haouse  thought  I  must  defend 
myself,  as  is  customary  in  the  deliberative  body  to 
which  he  belongs,  when  one  gentleman  accuses  another 
gentleman  of  mental  weakness  or  obliquity.  I  could 
not  make  up  my  mind  to  oblige  him  at  that  moment 
by  showing  fight.  I  suppose  that  would  have  pleased 
my  assailant,  as  I  don't  think  he  has  a  great  deal  to 
lose,  and  might  have  made  a  little  capital  out  of  me  if 
he  could  have  got  a  laugh  out  of  the  Member  or  either 
of  the  dummies,  —  I  beg  their  pardon  again,  I  mean 
the  two  undemonstrative  boarders.  But  I  will  tell 
you,  Beloved,  just  what  I  think  about  this  matter. 

We  poets,  you  know,  are  much  given  to  indulging 
in  sentiment,  which  is  a  mode  of  consciousness  at  a 
discount  just  now  with  the  new  generation  of  analysts 
who  are  throwing  everything  into  their  crucibles. 
Now  we  must  not  claim  too  much  for  sentiment.  It 
does  not  go  a  great  way  in  deciding  questions  of  arith- 
metic, or  algebra,  or  geometry.  Two  and  two  will 
undoubtedly  make  four,  irrespective  of  the  emotions 
or  other  idiosyncrasies  of  the  calculator ;  and  the  three 
angles  of  a  triangle  insist  on  being  equal  to  two  right 
angles,  in  the  face  of  the  most  impassioned  rhetoric  or 
the  most  inspired  verse.  But  inasmuch  as  religion 
and  law  and  the  whole  social  order  of  civilized  society, 
to  say  nothing  of  literature  and  art,  are  so  founded  on 
and  pervaded  by  sentiment  that  they  would  all  go  to 
pieces  without  it,  it  is  a  word  not  to  be  used  too  lightly 
in  passing  judgment,  as  if  it  were  an  element  to  be 
thrown  out  or  treated  with  small  consideration.  Rea- 
son may  be  the  lever,  but  sentiment  gives  you  the  ful- 


136    THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

crum  and  the  place  to  stand  on  if  you  want  to  move 
the  world.  Even  "sentimentality,"  which  is  senti- 
ment overdone,  is  better  than  that  affectation  of  supe- 
riority to  human  weakness  which  is  only  tolerable  as 
one  of  the  stage  properties  of  full-blown  dandyism, 
and  is,  at  best,  but  half -blown  cynicism ;  which  par- 
ticiple and  noun  you  can  translate,  if  you  happen  tc 
remember  the  derivation  of  the  last  of  them,  by  a  sin- 
gle familiar  word.  There  is  a  great  deal  of  false 
sentiment  in  the  world,  as  there  is  of  bad  logic  and 
erroneous  doctrine ;  but  it  is  very  much  less  disagree- 
able to  hear  a  young  poet  overdo  his  emotions,  or  even 
deceive  himself  about  them,  than  to  hear  a  caustic- 
epithet  flinger  repeating  such  words  as  "sentimental- 
ity" and  "entusymusy,"  —  one  of  the  least  admirable 
of  Lord  Byron's  bequests  to  our  language,  — for  the 
purpose  of  ridiculing  him  into  silence.  An  over- 
dressed woman  is  not  so  pleasing  as  she  might  be,  but 
at  any  rate  she  is  better  than  the  oil  of  vitriol  squirter, 
whose  profession  it  is  to  teach  young  ladies  to  avoid 
vanity  by  spoiling  their  showy  silks  and  satins. 

The  Lady  was  the  first  of  our  party  who  was  in- 
vited to  look  through  the  equatorial.  Perhaps  this 
world  had  proved  so  hard  to  her  that  she  was  pained 
to  think  that  other  worlds  existed,  to  be  homes  of  suf- 
fering and  sorrow.  Perhaps  she  was  thinking  it  would 
be  a  happy  change  when  she  should  leave  this  dark 
planet  for  one  of  those  brighter  spheres.  She  sighed, 
at  any  rate,  but  thanked  the  Young  Astronomer  for 
the  beautiful  sights  he  had  shown  her,  and  gave  way 
to  the  next  comer,  who  was  That  Boy,  now  in  a  state 
of  irrepressible  enthusiasm  to  see  the  Man  in  the 
Moon.  He  was  greatly  disappointed  at  not  making 
out  a  colossal  human  figure  moving  round  among  the 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.    137 

shining  summits  and  shadowy  ravines  of  the  "spotty 
globe." 

The  Landlady  came  next  and  wished  to  see  the 
moon  also,  in  preference  to  any  other  object.  She 
was  astonished  at  the  revelations  of  the  powerful  tel- 
escope. Was  there  any  live  creatures  to  be  seen  on 
the  moon?  she  asked.  The  Young  Astronomer  shook 
his  head,  smiling  a  little  at  the  question.  Was  there 
any  meet 'n' -houses?  There  was  no  evidence,  he  said, 
that  the  moon  was  inhabited.  As  there  did  not  seem 
to  be  either  air  or  water  on  its  surface,  the  inhabi- 
tants would  have  a  rather  hard  time  of  it,  and  if  they 
went  to  meeting  the  sermons  would  be  apt  to  be  rather 
dry.  If  there  were  a  building  on  it  as  big  as  York 
minster,  as  big  as  the  Boston  Coliseum,  the  great  tel- 
escopes like  Lord  Rosse's  would  make  it  out.  But  it 
seemed  to  be  a  forlorn  place ;  those  who  had  studied 
it  most  agreed  in  considering  it  a  "cold,  crude,  silent, 
and  desolate  "  ruin  of  nature,  without  the  possibility, 
if  life  were  on  it,  of  articulate  speech,  of  music,  even 
of  sound.  Sometimes  a  greenish  tint  was  seen  upon 
its  surface,  which  might  have  been  taken  for  vegeta- 
tion, but  it  was  thought  not  improbably  to  be  a  reflec- 
tion from  the  vast  forests  of  South  America.  The 
ancients  had  a  fancy,  some  of  them,  that  the  face  of 
the  moon  was  a  mirror  in  which  the  seas  and  shores 
of  the  earth  were  imaged.  Now  we  know  the  geogra- 
phy  of  the  side  toward  us  about  as  well  as  that  of  Asia, 
better  than  that  of  Africa.  The  Astronomer  showed 
them  one  of  the  common  small  photographs  of  the 
moon.  He  assured  them  that  he  had  received  letters 
inquiring  in  all  seriousness  if  these  alleged  lunar  pho- 
tographs were  not  really  taken  from  a  peeled  orange. 
People  had  got  angry  with  him  for  laughing  at  them 


138    THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

for  asking  such  a  question.  Then  he  gave  them  an 
account  of  the  famous  moon-hoax  which  came  out,  he 
believed,  in  1835.  It  was  full  of  the  most  bare-faced 
absurdities,  yet  people  swallowed  it  all,  and  even 
Arago  is  said  to  have  treated  it  seriously  as  a  thing 
that  could  not  well  be  true,  for  Mr.  Herschel  would 
have  certainly  notified  him  of  these  marvellous  discov- 
eries. The  writer  of  it  had  not  troubled  himself  to 
invent  probabilities,  but  had  borrowed  his  scenery 
from  the  Arabian  Nights  and  his  lunar  inhabitants 
from  Peter  Wilkins. 

After  this  lecture  the  Capitalist  stepped  forward 
and  applied  his  eye  to  the  lens.  I  suspect  it  to  have 
been  shut  most  of  the  time,  for  I  observe  a  good  many 
elderly  people  adjust  the  organ  of  vision  to  any  opti- 
cal instrument  in  that  way.  I  suppose  it  is  from  the 
instinct  of  protection  to  the  eye,  the  same  instinct  as 
that  which  makes  the  raw  militia-man  close  it  when  he 
pulls  the  trigger  of  his  musket  the  first  time.  He 
expressed  himself  highly  gratified,  however,  with  what 
he  saw,  and  retired  from  the  instrument  to  make  room 
for  the  Young  Girl. 

She  threw  her  hair  back  and  took  her  position  at 
the  instrument.  Saint  Simeon  Stylites  the  Younger 
explained  the  wonders  of  the  moon  to  her,  —  Tycho 
and  the  grooves  radiating  from  it,  Kepler  and  Coper- 
nicus with  their  craters  and  ridges,  and  all  the  most 
brilliant  shows  of  this  wonderful  little  world.  I 
thought  he  was  more  diffuse  and  more  enthusiastic  in 
his  descriptions  than  he  had  been  with  the  older  mem- 
bers of  the  party.  I  don't  doubt  the  old  gentleman 
who  lived  so  long  on  the  top  of  his  pillar  would  have 
kept  a  pretty  sinner  (if  he  could  have  had  an  elevator 
to  hoist  her  up  to  him)  longer  than  he  would  have 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BKEAKFAST-TABLE.    139 

kept  her  grandmother.  These  young  people  are  so 
ignorant,  you  know.  As  for  our  Scheherezade,  her 
delight  was  unbounded,  and  her  curiosity  insatiable. 
If  there  were  any  living  creatures  there,  what  odd 
things  they  must  be.  They  could  n't  have  any  lungs, 
nor  any  hearts.  What  a  pity!  Did  they  ever  die? 
How  could  they  expire  if  they  didn't  breathe?  Burn 
up?  No  ah  to  burn  in.  Tumble  into  some  of  those 
horrid  pits,  perhaps,  and  break  all  to  bits.  She  won- 
dered how  the  young  people  there  liked  it,  or  whether 
there  were  any  young  people  there ;  perhaps  nobody 
was  young  and  nobody  was  old,  but  they  were  like 
mummies  all  of  them  —  what  an  idea  —  two  mummies 
making  love  to  each  other !  So  she  went  on  in  a  rat- 
tling, giddy  kind  of  way,  for  she  was  excited  by  the 
strange  scene  in  which  she  found  herself,  and  quite 
astonished  the  Young  Astronomer  with  her  vivacity. 
All  at  once  she  turned  to  him. 

Will  you  show  me  the  double  star  you  said  I  should 
see? 

With  the  greatest  pleasure,  —  he  said,  and  pro- 
ceeded to  wheel  the  ponderous  dome,  and  then  to  ad- 
just the  instrument,  I  think  to  the  one  in  Andromeda, 
or  that  in  Cygnus,  but  I  should  not  know  one  of  them 
from  the  other. 

How  beautiful !  —  she  said  as  she  looked  at  the  won- 
derful object.  —  One  is  orange  red  and  one  is  emerald 
green. 

The  young  man  made  an  explanation  in  which  he 
said  something  about  complementary  colors. 

Goodness!  —  exclaimed  the  Landlady.  —  What  I 
complimentary  to  our  party  ? 

Her  wits  must  have  been  a  good  deal  confused  by 
the  strange  sights  of  the  evening.  She  had  seen  tick- 


140    THE  POET  AT  THE  BKEAKFAST-TABL3. 

ets  marked  complimentary ',  she  remembered,  but  she 
could  not  for  the  life  of  her  understand  why  our  party 
should  be  particularly  favored  at  a  celestial  exhibition 
like  this.  On  the  whole,  she  questioned  inwardly 
whether  it  might  not  be  some  subtle  pleasantry,  and 
smiled,  experimentally,  with  a  note  of  interrogation 
in  the  smile,  but,  finding  no  encouragement,  allowed 
her  features  to  subside  gradually  as  if  nothing  had 
happened.  I  saw  all  this  as  plainly  as  if  it  had  all 
been  printed  in  great-primer  type,  instead  of  working 
itself  out  in  her  features.  I  like  to  see  other  people 
muddled  now  and  then,  because  my  own  occasional 
dulness  is  relieved  by  a  good  solid  background  of  stu- 
pidity in  my  neighbors. 

—  And  the  two  revolve  round  each  other?  —  said 
the  Young  Girl. 

—  Yes,  —  he  answered,  —  two  suns,  a  greater  and 
a  less,  each  shining,  but  with  a  different  light,  for  the 
other. 

—  How  charming !  It  must  be  so  much  pleasanter 
than   to  be  alone  in  such  a  great  empty  space  !     I 
should  think  one  would  hardly  care  to  shine  if  its  light 
wasted  itself   in    the  monstrous  solitude  of  the  sky. 
Does  not  a  single  star  seem  very  lonely  to  you  up 
there? 

—  Not  more  lonely  than  I  am  myself,  —  answered 
the  Young  Astronomer. 

—  I  don't  know  what  there  was  in  those  few  words, 
but  I  noticed  that  for  a  minute  or  two  after  they  were 
uttered  I  heard  the  ticking  of  the  clock-work  that 
moved  the  telescope  as  clearly  as  if  we  had  all  been 
holding  our  breath,  and  listening  for  the  music  of  the 
spheres. 

The  Young  Girl  kept  her  eye  closely  applied  to  the 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.    141 

eye-piece  of  the  telescope  a  very  long  time,  it  seemed 
to  me.  Those  double  stars  interested  her  a  good  deal, 
no  doubt.  When  she  looked  off  from  the  glass  I 
thought  both  her  eyes  appeared  very  much  as  if  they 
had  been  a  little  strained,  for  they  were  suffused  and 
glistening.  It  may  be  that  she  pitied  the  lonely 
young  man. 

I  know  nothing  in  the  world  tenderer  than  the  pity 
that  a  kind-hearted  young  girl  has  for  a  young  man 
who  feels  lonely.  It  is  true  that  these  dear  creatures 
are  all  compassion  for  every  form  of  human  woe,  and 
anxious  to  alleviate  all  human  misfortunes.  They  will 
go  to  Sunday-schools  through  storms  their  brothers 
are  afraid  of,  to  teach  the  most  unpleasant  and  intrac- 
table classes  of  little  children  the  age  of  Methuselah 
and  the  dimensions  of  Og  the  King  of  Bashan's  bed- 
stead. They  will  stand  behind  a  table  at  a  fair  all 
day  until  they  are  ready  to  drop,  dressed  in  their  pret- 
tiest clothes  and  their  sweetest  smiles,  and  lay  hands 
upon  you,  like  so  many  Lady  Potiphars,  —  perfectly 
correct  ones,  of  course,  —  to  make  you  buy  what  you 
do  not  want,  at  prices  which  you  cannot  afford;  all 
this  as  cheerfully  as  if  it  were  not  martyrdom  to  them 
as  well  as  to  you.  Such  is  their  love  for  all  good  ob- 
jects, such  their  eagerness  to  sympathize  with  all  their 
suffering  fellow-creatures !  But  there  is  nothing  they 
pity  as  they  pity  a  lonely  young  man. 

I  am  sure,  I  sympathize  with  her  in  this  instance. 
To  see  a  pale  student  burning  away,  like  his  own  mid- 
night lamp,  with  only  dead  men's  hands  to  hold, 
stretched  out  to  him  from  the  sepulchres  of  books,  and 
dead  men's  souls  imploring  him  from  their  tablets  to 
warm  them  over  again  just  for  a  little  while  in  a  hu- 
man consciousness,  when  all  this  time  there  are  soft, 


142    THE  POET  AT  THE  BKEAKFAST-TABLE. 

warm,  living  hands  that  would  ask  nothing  better 
than  to  bring  the  blood  back  into  those  cold  thin  fin- 
gers, and  gently  caressing  natures  that  would  wind  all 
their  tendrils  about  the  unawakened  heart  which  knows 
so  little  of  itself,  is  pitiable  enough  and  would  be  sad- 
der still  if  we  did  not  have  the  feeling  that  sooner  or 
later  the  pale  student  will  be  pretty  sure  to  feel  the 
breath  of  a  young  girl  against  his  cheek  as  she  looks 
over  his  shoulder;  and  that  he  will  come  all  at  once  to 
an  illuminated  page  in  his  book  that  never  writer 
traced  in  characters,  and  never  printer  set  up  in  type, 
and  never  binder  enclosed  within  his  covers !  But  our 
young  man  seems  farther  away  from  life  than  any  stu- 
dent whose  head  is  bent  downwards  over  his  books. 
His  eyes  are  turned  away  from  all  human  things. 
How  cold  the  moonlight  is  that  falls  upon  his  fore- 
head, and  how  white  he  looks  in  it!  Will  not  the 
rays  strike  through  to  his  brain  at  last,  and  send  him 
to  a  narrower  cell  than  this  egg-shell  dome  which  is 
his  workshop  and  his  prison? 

I  cannot  say  that  the  Young  Astronomer  seemed 
particularly  impressed  with  a  sense  of  his  miserable 
condition.  He  said  he  was  lonely,  it  is  true,  but  he 
said  it  in  a  manly  tone,  and  not  as  if  he  were  repining 
at  the  inevitable  condition  of  his  devoting  himself  to 
that  particular  branch  of  science.  Of  course,  he  is 
lonely,  the  most  lonely  being  that  lives  in  the  midst 
of  our  breathing  world.  If  he  would  only  stay  a  little 
longer  with  us  when  we  get  talking;  but  he  is  busy 
almost  always  either  in  observation  or  with  his  calcu- 
lations and  studies,  and  when  the  nights  are  fair  loses 
so  much  sleep  that  he  must  make  it  up  by  day.  He 
wants  contact  with  human  beings.  I  wish  he  would 
change  his  seat  and  come  round  and  sit  by  our  Sche- 
herezade ! 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.    148 

The  rest  of  the  visit  went  off  well  enough,  except 
that  the  "Man  of  Letters,"  so  called,  rather  snubbed 
some  of  the  heavenly  bodies  as  not  quite  up  to  his 
standard  of  brilliancy.  I  thought  myself  that  the 
double-star  episode  was  the  best  part  of  it. 

I  have  an  unexpected  revelation  to  make  to  the 
reader.  Not  long  after  our  visit  to  the  Observatory, 
the  Young  Astronomer  put  a  package  into  my  hands, 
a  manuscript,  evidently,  which  he  said  he  would  like 
to  have  me  glance  over.  I  found  something  in  it 
which  interested  me,  and  told  him  the  next  day  that 
I  should  like  to  read  it  with  some  care.  He  seemed 
rather  pleased  at  this,  and  said  that  he  wished  I  would 
criticise  it  as  roughly  as  I  liked,  and  if  I  saw  any- 
thing in  it  which  might  be  dressed  to  better  advantage 
to  treat  it  freely,  just  as  if  it  were  my  own  produc- 
tion. It  had  often  happened  to  him,  he  went  on  to 
say,  to  be  interrupted  in  his  observations  by  clouds 
covering  the  objects  he  was  examining  for  a  longer  or 
shorter  time.  In  these  idle  moments  he  had  put  down 
many  thoughts,  unskilfully  he  feared,  but  just  as  they 
came  into  his  mind.  His  blank  verse  he  suspected 
was  often  faulty.  His  thoughts  he  knew  must  be 
crude,  many  of  them.  It  would  please  him  to  have 
me  amuse  myself  by  putting  them  into  shape.  He 
was  kind  enough  to  say  that  I  was  an  artist  in  words, 
ibut  he  held  himself  as  an  unskilled  apprentice. 

I  confess  I  was  appalled  when  I  cast  my  eye  upon 
the  title  of  the  manuscript,  "Cirri  and  Nebulae." 

—  Oh !  oh !  —  I  said,  —  that  will  never  do.  Peo- 
ple don't  know  what  Cirri  are,  at  least  not  one  out  of 
fifty  readers.  "Wind-Clouds  and  Star-Drifts"  will 
do  better  than  that. 


144    THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

—  Anything  you  like,  —  he  answered,  —  what  dif- 
ference does  it  make  how  you  christen  a  foundling  ? 
These  are  not  my  legitimate  scientific  offspring,  and 
you  may  consider  them  left  on  your  doorstep. 

—  I  will  not  attempt  to  say  just  how  much  of  the 
diction  of  these  lines  belongs  to  him,  and  how  much 
to  me.     He  said  he  would  never  claim  them,  after  I 
read  them  to  him  in  my  version.     I,  on  my  part,  do 
not  wish  to  be  held  responsible  for  some  of  his  more 
daring  thoughts,  if  I  should  see  fit  to  reproduce  them 
hereafter.     At  this  time  I  shall  give  only  the  first  part 
of  the  series  of  poetical  outbreaks  for  which  the  young 
devotee  of  science  must  claim  his  share  of  the  respon- 
sibility.    I  may  put  some  more  passages  into  shape 
by  and  by. 

WIND-CLOUDS  AND  STAR-DRIFTS. 

Another  clouded  night  ;  the  stars  are  hid, 

The  orb  that  waits  my  search  is  hid  with  them. 

Patience  !     Why  grudge  an  hour,  a  month,  a  year, 

To  plant  my  ladder  and  to  gain  the  round 

That  leads  my  footsteps  to  the  heaven  of  fame, 

Where  waits  the  wreath  my  sleepless  midnights  won  ? 

Not  the  stained  laurel  such  as  heroes  wear 

That  withers  when  some  stronger  conqueror's  heel 

Treads  down  their  shrivelling  trophies  in  the  dust  ; 

But  the  fair  garland  whose  undying  green 

Not  time  can  change,  nor  wrath  of  gods  or  men  ! 

With  quickened  heart-beats  I  shall  hear  the  tongues 
That  speak  my  praise  ;  but  better  far  the  sense 
That  in  the  unshaped  ages,  buried  deep 
In  the  dark  mines  of  unaccomplished  time 
Yet  to  be  stamped  with  morning's  royal  die 
And  coined  in  golden  days,  —  in  those  dim  years 
I  shall  be  reckoned  with  the  undying  dead, 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.    145 

My  name  emblazoned  on  the  fiery  arch, 

Unfading  till  the  stars  themselves  shall  fade. 

Then,  as  they  call  the  roll  of  shining  worlds, 

Sages  of  race  unborn  in  accents  new 

Shall  count  me  with  the  Olympian  ones  of  old, 

Whose  glories  kindle  through  the  midnight  sky  : 

Here  glows  the  God  of  Battles  ;  this  recalls 

The  Lord  of  Ocean,  and  yon  far-off  sphere 

The  Sire  of  Him  who  gave  his  ancient  name 

To  the  dim  planet  with  the  wondrous  rings  ; 

Here  flames  the  Queen  of  Beauty's  silver  lamp, 

And  there  the  moon-girt  orb  of  mighty  Jove  ; 

But  this,  unseen  through  all  earth's  seons  past, 

A  youth  who  watched  beneath  the  western  star 

Sought  in  the  darkness,  found,  and  showed  to  men  ; 

Linked  with  his  name  thenceforth  and  evermore  1 

So  shall  that  name  be  syllabled  anew 

In  all  the  tongues  of  all  the  tribes  of  men  : 

I  that  have  been  through  immemorial  years 

Dust  in  the  dust  of  my  forgotten  time 

Shall  live  in  accents  shaped  of  blood-warm  breath, 

Yea,  rise  in  mortal  semblance,  newly  born 

In  shining  stone,  in  undecaying  bronze, 

And  stand  on  high,  and  look  serenely  down 

On  the  new  race  that  calls  the  earth  its  own. 

Is  this  a  cloud,  that,  blown  athwart  my  soul, 
Wears  a  false  seeming  of  the  pearly  stain 
Where  worlds  beyond  the  world  their  mingling  rays 
Blend  in  soft  white,  —  a  cloud  that,  born  of  earth, 
Would  cheat  the  soul  that  looks  for  light  from  heaven  ? 
Must  every  coral-insect  leave  his  sign 
On  each  poor  grain  he  lent  to  build  the  reef, 
As  Babel's  builders  stamped  their  sunburnt  clay, 
Or  deem  his  patient  service  all  in  vain  ? 
What  if  another  sit  beneath  the  shade 
Of  the  broad  elm  I  planted  by  the  way,  — 
What  if  another  heed  the  beacon  light 
i  set  upon  the  rock  that  wrecked  my  keel,  — 
Have  I  not  done  my  task  and  served  my  kind  ? 
Nay,  rather  act  thy  part,  unnamed,  unknown, 


146    THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

And  let  Fame  blow  her  trumpet  through  the  world 

With  noisy  wind  to  swell  a  fool's  renown, 

Joined  with  some  truth  he  stumbled  blindly  o'er, 

Or  coupled  with  some  single  shining  deed 

That  in  the  great  account  of  all  his  days 

Will  stand  alone  upon  the  bankrupt  sheet 

His  pitying  angel  shows  the  clerk  of  Heaven. 

The  noblest  service  comes  from  nameless  hands, 

And  the  best  servant  does  his  work  unseen. 

Who  found  the  seeds  of  fire  and  made  them  shoot, 

Fed  by  his  breath,  in  buds  and  flowers  of  flame  ? 

Who  forged  in  roaring  flames  the  ponderous  stone, 

And  shaped  the  moulded  metal  to  his  need  ? 

Who  gave  the  dragging  car  its  rolling  wheel, 

And  tamed  the  steed  that  whirls  its  circling  round  ? 

All  these  have  left  their  work  and  not  their  names,  — 

Why  should  I  murmur  at  a  fate  like  theirs  ? 

This  is  the  heavenly  light  ;  the  pearly  stain 

Was  but  a  wind-cloud  drifting  o'er  the  stars  ! 


VL 

I  find  I  have  so  many  things  in  common  with  the 
oM  Master  of  Arts,  that  I  do  not  always  know 
whether  a  thought  was  originally  his  or  mine.  That 
is  what  always  happens  where  two  persons  of  a  similar 
cast  of  mind  talk  much  together.  And  both  of  them 
often  gain  by  the  interchange.  Many  ideas  grow  bet- 
ter when  transplanted  into  another  mind  than  in  the 
one  where  they  sprang  up.  That  which  was  a  weed 
in  one  intelligence  becomes  a  flower  in  the  other.  A 
flower,  on  the  other  hand,  may  dwindle  down  to  a 
mere  weed  by  the  same  change.  Healthy  growths 
may  become  poisonous  by  falling  upon  the  wrong 
mental  soil,  and  what  seemed  a  night-shade  in  one 
mind  unfold  as  a  morning-glory  in  the  other. 

—  I  thank  God,  — the  Master  said,  — that  a  great 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.     147 

many  people  believe  a  great  deal  more  than  I  do.  I 
think,  when  it  comes  to  serious  matters,  I  like  those 
who  believe  more  than  I  do  better  than  those  who  be- 
lieve less. 

—  Why,  —  said  I,  —  you  have  got  hold  of  one  of 
my  own  working  axioms.     I  should  like  to  hear  you 
develop  it. 

The  Member  of  the  Haouse  said  he  should  be  glad 
to  listen  to  the  debate.  The  gentleman  had  the  floor. 
The  Scarabee  rose  f roin  his  chair  and  departed ;  —  I 
thought  his  joints  creaked  as  he  straightened  himself. 

The  Young  Girl  made  a  slight  movement ;  it  was 
a  purely  accidental  coincidence,  no  doubt,  but  I  saw 
That  Boy  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket  and  pull  out  his 
popgun,  and  begin  loading  it.  It  cannot  be  that  our 
Scheherezade,  who  looks  so  quiet  and  proper  at  the 
table,  can  make  use  of  That  Boy  and  his  catapult  to 
control  the  course  cf  conversation  and  change  it  to 
suit  herself!  She  certainly  looks  innocent  enough; 
but  what  does  a  blush  prove,  and  what  does  its  absence 
prove,  on  one  of  these  innocent  faces  ?  There  is  no- 
thing in  all  this  world  that  can  lie  and  cheat  like  the 
face  and  the  tongue  of  a  young  girl.  Just  give  her  a 
little  touch  of  hysteria,  —  I  don't  mean  enough  of  it 
to  make  her  friends  call  the  doctor  in,  but  a  slight 
hint  of  it  in  the  nervous  system,  —  and  "  Machiavel 
the  waiting-maid"  might  take  lessons  of  her.  But 
I  cannot  think  our  Scheherezade  is  one  of  that  kind, 
and  I  am  ashamed  of  myself  for  noting  such  a  trifling 
coincidence  as  that  which  excited  my  suspicion. 

—  I   say,  —  the  Master   continued,  —  that    I   had 
rather  be  in  the  company  of  those  who  believe  more 
than  I  do,  in  spiritual  matters  at  least,  than  of  those 
who  doubt  what  I  accept  as  a  part  of  my  belief. 


148    THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

—  To  tell  the  truth, — said  I, — I  find  that  diffi- 
culty sometimes  in  talking  with  you.     You  have  not 
quite  so  many  hesitations  as  I  have  in  following  out 
your  logical  conclusions.     I  suppose  you  would  bring 
some  things  out  into  daylight  questioning  that  I  had 
rather  leave  in  that  twilight  of  halt-belief  peopled  with 
shadows  —  if  they  are  only  shadows  —  more  sacred  to 
me  than  many  realities. 

There  is  nothing  I  do  not  question,  —  said  the 
Master ;  —  I  not  only  begin  with  the  precept  of  Des- 
cartes, but  I  hold  all  my  opinions  involving  any  chain 
of  reasoning  always  open  to  revision. 

—  I  confess  that  I  smiled  internally  to  hear  him 
say  that.     The  old  Master  thinks  he  is  open  to  con- 
viction on  all  subjects;  but  if  you  meddle  with  some 
of  his  notions  and  don't  get  tossed  on  his  horns  as  if 
a  bull  had  hold  of  you,  I  should  call  you  lucky. 

—  You  don't  mean  you  doubt  everything?  —  I  said. 

—  What  do  you  think  I  question  everything  for,  — 
the  Master  replied, — if   I   never  get  any  answers? 
You  've  seen  a  blind  man  with  a  stick,  feeling  his 
way  along?     Well,  I  am  a  blind  man  with  a  stick, 
and  I  find  the  world  pretty  full  of  men  just  as  blind 
as  I  am,  but  without  any  stick.     I  try  the  ground  to 
find  out  whether  it  is  firm  or  not  before  I  rest  my 
weight  on  it;  but  after  it  has  borne  my  weight,  that 
question  at  least  is  answered.     It  very  certainly  was 
strong  enough  once;    the    presumption  is  that  it    is 
strong  enough  now.     Still  the  soil  may  have  been  un- 
dermined, or  I  may  have  grown  heavier.     Make  as 
much  of  that  as  you  will.     I  say  I  question  every- 
thing ;  but  if  I  find  Bunker  Hill  Monument  standing 
as  straight  as  when  I  leaned  against  it  a  year  or  ten 
years  ago,  I  am  not  very  much  afraid  that  Bunker 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.    149 

Hill  will  cave  in  if  I  trust  myself  again  on  the  soil 
of  it. 

I  glanced  off,  as  one  often  does  in  talk. 

The  Monument  is  an  awful  place  to  visit,  —  I  said. 
—  The  waves  of  time  are  like  the  waves  of  the  ocean; 
the  only  thing  they  beat  against  without  destroying 
it  is  a  rock;  and  they  destroy  that  at  last.  But  it 
takes  a  good  while.  There  is  a  stone  now  standing  in 
very  good  order  that  was  as  old  as  a  monument  of 
Louis  XIV.  and  Queen  Anne's  day  is  now  when  Jo- 
seph went  down  into  Egypt.  Think  of  the  shaft  on 
Bunker  Hill  standing  in  the  sunshine  on  the  morning 
of  January  1st  in  the  year  5872 ! 

It  won't  be  standing,  —  the  Master  said.  —  We  are 
poor  bunglers  compared  to  those  old  Egyptians. 
There  are  no  joints  in  one  of  their  obelisks.  They 
are  our  masters  in  more  ways  than  we  know  of,  and 
in  more  ways  than  some  of  us  are  willing  to  know. 
That  old  Lawgiver  was  n't  learned  in  all  the  wisdom 
of  the  Egyptians  for  nothing.  It  scared  people  well  a 
couple  of  hundred  years  ago  when  Sir  John  Marsham 
and  Dr.  John  Spencer  ventured  to  tell  their  stories 
about  the  sacred  ceremonies  of  the  Egyptian  priest- 
hood. People  are  beginning  to  find  out  now  that 
you  can't  study  any  religion  by  itself  to  any  good  pur- 
pose. You  must  have  comparative  theology  as  you 
have  comparative  anatomy.  What  would  you  make 
of  a  cat's  foolish  little  good-for-nothing  collar-bone, 
if  you  did  not  know  how  the  same  bone  means  a  good 
deal  in  other  creatures,  —  in  yourself,  for  instance, 
as  you  '11  find  out  if  you  break  it?  You  can't  know 
too  much  of  your  race  and  its  beliefs,  if  you  want  to 
know  anything  about  your  Maker.  I  never  found  but 
one  sect  large  enough  to  hold  the  whole  of  me. 


150          THE  POET   AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

—  And  may  I  ask  what  that  was?  —  I  said. 

—  The   Human   sect,  —  the    Master    answered.  — 
That  has  about  room  enough  for  me,  —  at  present,  I 
mean  to  say. 

—  Including  cannibals  and  all?  —  said  I. 

—  Oh,  as  to  that,  the  eating  of  one's  kind  is  a  mat- 
ter of  taste,  but  the  roasting  of  them  has  been  rather 
more  a  specialty  of  our  own  particular  belief  than  of 
any  other  I  am  acquainted  with.     If  you  broil  a  saint, 
I  don't  see  why,  if  you  have  a  mind,  you  should  n't 
serve  him  up  at  your  — 

Pop !  went  the  little  piece  of  artillery.  Don't  tell 
me  it  was  accident.  I  know  better.  You  can't  sup- 
pose for  one  minute  that  a  boy  like  that  one  would 
time  his  interruptions  so  cleverly.  Now  it  so  hap- 
pened that  at  that  particular  moment  Dr.  B.  Frank- 
lin was  not  at  the,  table.  You  may  draw  your  own 
conclusions.  I  say  nothing,  but  I  think  a  good  deal. 

—  I  came  back  to  the  Bunker  Hill  Monument.  —  I 
often   think  —  I   said  —  of   the  dynasty  which   is  to 
reign  in  its  shadow  for  some  thousands  of  years,  it 
may  be. 

The  "Man  of  Letters,"  so  called,  asked  me,  in  a 
tone  I  did  not  exactly  like,  whether  I  expected  to  live 
long  enough  to  see  a  monarchy  take  the  place  of  a  re- 
public in  this  country. 

—  No, — said   I, — I  was   thinking  of   something 
very  different.     I   was   indulging  a    fancy  of  mine 
about  the  Man  who  is  to  sit  at  the  foot  of  the  monu- 
ment for  one,  or  it  may  be  two  or  three  thousand 
years.     As  long  as  the  monument  stands  and  there  is 
a  city  near  it,  there  will  always  be  a  man  to  take  the 
names  of  visitors  and  extract  some  small  tribute  from 
their  pockets,  I  suppose.     I  sometimes  get  thinking 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BKEAKFAST-TABLE.    151 

of  the  long,  unbroken  succession  of  these  men,  until 
they  come  to  look  like  one  Man ;  continuous  in  being, 
unchanging  as  the  stone  he  watches,  looking  upon  the 
successive  generations  of  human  beings  as  they  come 
and  go,  and  outliving  all  the  dynasties  of  the  world  in 
all  probability.  It  has  come  to  such  a  pass  that  I 
never  speak  to  the  Man  of  the  Monument  without 
wanting  to  take  my  hat  off  and  feeling  as  if  I  were 
looking  down  a  vista  of  twenty  or  thirty  centuries. 

The  "Mar  of  Letters,"  so  called,  said,  in  a  rather 
contemptuous  way,  I  thought,  that  he  had  n't  got  so 
far  as  that.  He  was  n't  quite  up  to  moral  reflections 
on  toll-men  and  ticket-takers.  Sentiment  was  n't  his 
tap. 

He  looked  round  triumphantly  for  a  response :  but 
the  Capitalist  was  a  little  hard  of  hearing  just  then; 
the  Register  of  Deeds  was  browsing  on  his  food  in  the 
calm  bovine  abstraction  of  a  quadruped,  and  paid  no 
attention ;  the  Salesman  had  bolted  his  breakfast,  and 
whisked  himself  away  with  that  peculiar  alacrity  which 
belongs  to  the  retail  dealer's  assistant;  and  the  Mem- 
ber of  the  Haouse,  who  had  sometimes  seemed  to  be 
impressed  with  his  "tahlented  mahn's"  air  of  superi- 
ority to  the  rest  of  us,  looked  as  if  he  thought  the 
speaker  was  not  exactly  parliamentary.  So  he  failed 
to  make  his  point,  and  reddened  a  little,  and  was  not 
in  the  best  humor,  I  thought,  when  he  left  the  table. 
I  hope  he  will  not  let  off  any  of  his  irritation  on  our 
poor  little  Scheherezade ;  but  the  truth  is,  the  first 
person  a  man  of  this  sort  (if  he  is  what  I  think  him) 
meets,  when  he  is  out  of  humor,  has  to  be  made  a 
victim  of,  and  I  only  hope  our  Young  Girl  will  not 
have  to  play  Jephthah's  daughter. 

And  that  leads  me  to  say,  I  cannot  help  thinking 


152    THE  POET  AT  THE  BKEAKFAST-TABLE. 

that  the  kind  of  criticism  to  which  this  Young  Girl 
has  been  subjected  from  some  person  or  other,  who  is 
willing  to  be  smart  at  her  expense,  is  hurtfid  and 
not  wholesome.  The  question  is  a  delicate  one.  So 
many  foolish  persons  are  rushing  into  print,  that  it 
requires  a  kind  of  literary  police  to  hold  them  back 
and  keep  them  in  order.  Where  there  are  mice  there 
must  be  cats,  and  where  there  are  rats  we  may  think 
it  worth  our  while  to  keep  a  terrier,  who  will  give 
them  a  shake  and  let  them  drop,  with  all  the  mischief 
taken  out  of  them.  But  the  process  is  a  rude  and 
cruel  one  at  best,  and  it  too  often  breeds  a  love  of 
destructiveness  for  its  own  sake  in  those  who  get  their 
living  by  it.  A  poor  poem  or  essay  does  not  do 
much  harm  after  all;  nobody  reads  it  who  is  like  to 
be  seriously  hurt  by  it.  But  a  sharp  criticism  with 
a  drop  of  witty  venom  in  it  stings  a  young  author 
almost  to  death,  and  makes  an  old  one  uncomfortable 
to  no  purpose.  If  it  were  my  business  to  sit  in  judg- 
ment on  my  neighbors,  I  would  try  to  be  courteous, 
at  least,  to  those  who  had  done  any  good  service, 
but,  above  all,  I  would  handle  tenderly  those  young 
authors  who  are  coming  before  the  public  in  the  flut- 
ter of  their  first  or  early  appearance,  and  are  in  the 
trembling  delirium  of  stage-fright  already.  Before 
you  write  that  brilliant  notice  of  some  alliterative 
Angelina's  book  of  verses,  I  wish  you  would  try  this 
experiment. 

Take  half  a  sheet  of  paper  and  copy  upon  it  any  of 
Angelina's  stanzas,  —  the  ones  you  were  going  to 
make  fun  of,  if  you  will.  Now  go  to  your  window, 
if  it  is  a  still  day,  open  it,  and  let  the  half -sheet  of 
paper  drop  on  the  outside.  How  gently  it  falls 
through  the  soft  air,  always  tending  downwards,  but 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.     153 

sliding  softly,  from  side  to  side,  wavering,  hesitating, 
balancing,  until  it  settles  as  noiselessly  as  a  snow-flake 
upon  the  all-receiving  bosom  of  the  earth !  Just  such 
would  have  been  the  fate  of  poor  Angelina's  fluttering 
effort,  if  you  had  left  it  to  itself.  It  would  have 
slanted  downward  into  oblivion  so  sweetly  and  softly 
that  she  would  have  never  known  when  it  reached 
that  harmless  consummation. 

Our  epizoic  literature  is  becoming  so  extensive  that 
nobody  is  safe  from  its  ad  infinitum  progeny.  A 
man  writes  a  book  of  criticisms.  A  Quarterly  Review 
criticises  the  critic.  A  Monthly  Magazine  takes  up 
the  critic's  critic.  A  Weekly  Journal  criticises  the 
critic  of  the  critic's  critic,  and  a  daily  paper  favors  us 
with  some  critical  remarks  on  the  performance  of  the 
writer  in  the  Weekly,  who  has  criticised  the  critical 
notice  in  the  Monthly  of  the  critical  essay  in  the 
Quarterly  on  the  critical  work  we  started  with.  And 
thus  we  see  that  as  each  flea  "has  smaller  fleas  that  on 
him  prey,"  even  the  critic  himself  cannot  escape  the 
common  lot  of  being  bitten.  Whether  all  this  is  a 
blessing  or  a  curse,  like  that  one  which  made  Pharaoh 
and  all  his  household  run  to  their  toilet-tables,  is  a 
question  about  which  opinions  might  differ.  The 
physiologists  of  the  time  of  Moses  —  if  there  were 
vivisectors  other  than  priests  in  those  days  —  would 
probably  have  considered  that  other  plague,  of  the 
frogs,  as  a  fortunate  opportunity  for  science,  as  this 
poor  little  beast  has  been  the  souffre-douleur  of  ex- 
perimenters and  schoolboys  from  time  immemorial. 

But  there  is  a  form  of  criticism  to  which  none  will 
object.  It  is  impossible  to  come  before  a  public  so 
alive  with  sensibilities  as  this  we  live  in,  with  the 
smallest  evidence  of  a  sympathetic  disposition,  with- 


154     THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

out  making  friends  in  a  very  unexpected  way.  Every- 
where there  are  minds  tossing  on  the  unquiet  waves 
of  doubt.  If  you  confess  to  the  same  perplexities  and 
uncertainties  that  torture  them,  they  are  grateful  for 
your  companionship.  If  you  have  groped  your  way 
out  of  the  wilderness  in  which  you  were  once  wander, 
ing  with  them,  they  will  follow  your  footsteps,  it  may 
be,  and  bless  you  as  their  deliverer.  So,  all  at  once^ 
a  writer  finds  he  has  a  parish  of  devout  listeners, 
scattered,  it  is  true,  beyond  the  reach  of  any  summons 
but  that  of  a  trumpet  like  the  archangel's,  to  whom 
his  slight  discourse  may  be  of  more  value  than  the 
exhortations  they  hear  from  the  pulpit,  if  these  last  do 
not  happen  to  suit  their  special  needs.  Young  men 
with  more  ambition  and  intelligence  than  force  of 
character,  who  have  missed  their  first  steps  in  life  and 
are  stumbling  irresolute  amidst  vague  aims  and  chang- 
ing purposes,  hold  out  their  hands,  imploring  to  be 
led  into,  or  at  least  pointed  towards,  some  path  where 
they  can  find  a  firm  foothold.  Young  women  born 
into  a  chilling  atmosphere  of  circumstance  which 
keeps  all  the  buds  of  their  nature  unopened  and  al- 
ways striving  to  get  to  a  ray  of  sunshine,  if  one 
finds  its  way  to  their  neighborhood,  tell  their  stories, 
sometimes  simply  and  touchingly,  sometimes  in  a  more 
or  less  affected  and  rhetorical  way,  but  still  stories  of 
defeated  and  disappointed  instincts  which  ought  to 
make  any  moderately  impressible  person  feel  very 
tenderly  toward  them. 

In  speaking  privately  to  these  young  persons,  many 
of  whom  have  literary  aspirations,  one  should  be  very 
considerate  of  their  human  feelings.  But  addressing 
them  collectively  a  few  plain  truths  will  not  give  any 
one  of  them  much  pain.  Indeed,  almost  every  indi- 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.    155 

vidual  among  them  will  feel  sure  that  he  or  she  is  an 
exception  to  those  generalities  which  apply  so  well  to 
the  rest. 

If  I  were  a  literary  Pope  sending  out  an  Encyclical, 
I  would  tell  these  inexperienced  persons  that  nothing 
is  so  frequent  as  to  mistake  an  ordinary  human  gift 
for  a  special  and  extraordinary  endowment.  The 
mechanism  of  breathing  and  that  of  swallowing  are 
very  wonderful,  and  if  one  had  seen  and  studied  them 
in  his  own  person  only,  he  might  well  think  himself  a 
prodigy.  Everybody  knows  these  and  other  bodily 
faculties  are  common  gifts;  but  nobody  except  edi- 
tors and  school-teachers  and  here  and  there  a  literary 
man  knows  how  common  is  the  capacity  of  rhyming 
and  prattling  in  readable  prose,  especially  among 
young  women  of  a  certain  degree  of  education.  In 
my  character  of  Pontiff,  I  should  tell  these  young 
persons  that  most  of  them  labored  under  a  delusion. 
It  is  very  hard  to  believe  it;  one  feels  so  full  of  intel- 
ligence and  so  decidedly  superior  to  one's  dull  rela- 
tions and  schoolmates;  one  writes  so  easily  and  the 
lines  sound  so  prettily  to  one's  self;  there  are  such 
felicities  of  expression,  just  like  those  we  hear  quoted 
from  the  great  poets;  and  besides  one  has  been  told 
by  so  many  friends  that  all  one  had  to  do  was  to  print 
and  be  famous !  Delusion,  my  poor  dear,  delusion  at 
least  nineteen  times  out  of  twenty,  yes,  ninety-nine 
times  in  a  hundred. 

But  as  private  father  confessor,  I  always  allow  as 
much  as  I  can  for  the  one  chance  in  the  hundred.  I 
try  not  to  take  away  all  hope,  unless  the  case  is 
clearly  desperate,  and  then  to  direct  the  activities  into 
some  other  channel. 

Using  kind  language,  I  can  talk  pretty  freely.     I 


156    THE  POET  AT  THE  BKEAKFAST-TABLE. 

have  counselled  more  than  one  aspirant  after  literary 
fame  to  go  back  to  his  tailor's  board  or  his  lapstone. 
I  have  advised  the  dilettanti,  whose  foolish  friends 
praised  their  verses  or  their  stories,  to  give  up  all 
their  deceptive  dreams  of  making  a  name  by  their 
genius,  and  go  to  work  in  the  study  of  a  profession 
which  asked  only  for  the  diligent  use  of  average, 
ordinary  talents.  It  is  a  very  grave  responsibility 
which  these  unknown  correspondents  throw  upon  their 
chosen  counsellors.  One  whom  you  have  never  seen, 
who  lives  in  a  community  of  which  you  know  nothing, 
sends  you  specimens  more  or  less  painfully  voluminous 
of  his  writings,  which  he  asks  you  to  read  over,  think 
over,  and  pray  over,  and  send  back  an  answer  inform- 
ing him  whether  fame  and  fortune  are  awaiting  him 
as  the  possessor  of  the  wonderful  gifts  his  writings 
manifest,  and  whether  you  advise  him  to  leave  all, 
—  the  shop  he  sweeps  out  every  morning,  the  ledger 
he  posts,  the  mortar  in  which  he  pounds,  the  bench 
at  which  he  urges  the  reluctant  plane,  —  and  follow 
his  genius  whithersoever  it  may  lead  him.  The  next 
correspondent  wants  you  to  mark  out  a  whole  course 
of  life  for  him,  and  the  means  of  judgment  he  gives 
you  are  about  as  adequate  as  the  brick  which  the  sim- 
pleton of  old  carried  round  as  an  advertisement  of  the 
house  he  had  to  sell.  My  advice  to  all  the  young  men 
that  write  to  me  depends  somewhat  on  the  handwrit- 
ing and  spelling.  If  these  are  of  a  certain  charac- 
ter, and  they  have  reached  a  mature  age,  I  recom- 
mend some  honest  manual  calling,  such  as  they  have 
very  probably  been  bred  to,  and  which  will,  at  least, 
give  them  a  chance  of  becoming  President  of  the 
United  States  by  and  by,  if  that  is  any  object  to 
them.  What  would  you  have  done  with  the  young 


THE   POET   AT   THE   BREAKFAST-TABLE.          157 

person  who  called  on  me  a  good  many  years  ago,  — 
so  many  that  he  has  probably  forgotten  his  literary 
effort,  —  and  read  as  specimens  of  his  literary  work- 
manship lines  like  those  which  I  will  favor  you  with 
presently?  He  was  an  able-bodied,  grown-up  young 
person,  whose  ingenuousness  interested  me ;  and  I  am 
sure  if  I  thought  he  would  ever  be  pained  ,to  see  his 
maiden  effort  in  print,  I  would  deny  myself  the  plea- 
sure of  submitting  it  to  the  reader.  The  following 
is  an  exact  transcript  of  the  lines  he  showed  me,  and 
which  I  took  down  on  the  spot :  — 

"  Are  you  in  the  vein  for  cider  ? 
Are  you  in  the  tune  for  pork  ? 
Hist !  for  Betty  's  cleared  the  larder 
And  turned  the  pork  to  soap." 

Do  not  judge  too  hastily  this  sincere  effort  of  a  maiden 
muse.  Here  was  a  sense  of  rhythm,  and  an  effort  in 
the  direction  of  rhyme ;  here  was  an  honest  transcript 
of  an  occurrence  of  daily  life,  told  with  a  certain  ideal- 
izing expression,  recognizing  the  existence  of  impulses, 
mysterious  instincts,  impelling  us  even  in  the  selec- 
tion of  our  bodily  sustenance.  But  I  had  to  tell  him 
that  it  wanted  dignity  of  incident  and  grace  of  nar- 
rative, that  there  was  no  atmosphere  to  it,  nothing  of 
the  light  that  never  was  and  so  forth.  I  did  not  say 
this  in  these  very  words,  but  I  gave  him  to  under- 
stand, without  being  too  hard  upon  him,  that  he  had 
better  not  desert  his  honest  toil  in  pursuit  of  the 
poet's  bays.  This,  it  must  be  confessed,  was  a  rather 
discouraging  case.  A  young  person  like  this  may 
pierce,  as  the  Frenchmen  say,  by  and  by,  but  the 
chances  are  all  the  other  way. 

I  advise  aimless  young  men  to  choose  some  profes- 


158    THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

sion  without  needless  delay,  and  so  get  into  a  good 
strong  current  of  human  affairs,  and  find  themselves 
bound  up  in  interests  with  a  compact  body  of  their 
fellow-men. 

I  advise  young  women  who  write  to  me  for  counsel, 
— perhaps  I  do  not  advise  them  at  all,  only  sympa- 
thize a  little  with  them,  and  listen  to  what  they  have 
to  say  (eight  closely  written  pages  on  the  average, 
which  I  always  read  from  beginning  to  end,  thinking 
of  the  widow's  cruse  and  myself  in  the  character  of 
Elijah)  and  —  and  —  come  now,  I  don't  believe  Me- 
thuselah would  tell  you  what  he  said  in  his  letters  to 
young  ladies,  written  when  he  was  in  his  nine  hun- 
dred and  sixty -ninth  year. 

But,  dear  me !  how  much  work  all  this  private  crit- 
icism involves  !  An  editor  has  only  to  say  "respect- 
fully declined,"  and  there  is  the  end  of  it.  But  the 
confidential  adviser  is  expected  to  give  the  reasons  of 
his  likes  and  dislikes  in  detail,  and  sometimes  to  enter 
into  an  argument  for  their  support.  That  is  more 
than  any  martyr  can  stand,  but  what  trials  he  must 
go  through,  as  it  is !  Great  bundles  of  manuscripts, 
verse  or  prose,  which  the  recipient  is  expected  to  read, 
perhaps  to  recommend  to  a  publisher,  at  any  rate  to 
express  a  well-digested  and  agreeably  flavored  opinion 
about;  which  opinion,  nine  times  out  of  ten,  disguise 
it  as  we  may,  has  to  be  a  bitter  draught ;  every  form 
of  egotism,  conceit,  false  sentiment,  hunger  for  noto- 
riety, and  eagerness  for  display  of  anserine  plumage 
before  the  admiring  public;  —  all  these  come  in  by 
mail  or  express,  covered  with  postage-stamps  of  so 
much  more  cost  than  the  value  of  the  waste  words 
they  overlie,  that  one  comes  at  last  to  groan  and 
change  color  at  the  very  sight  of  a  package,  and  to 


THE   POET   AT   THE   BREAKFAST-TABLE.          159 

dread  the  postman's  knock  as  if  it  were  that  of  the 
other  visitor  whose  naked  knuckles  rap  at  every  door. 

Still  there  are  experiences  which  go  far  towards  re- 
paying all  these  inflictions.  My  last  young  man's  case 
looked  desperate  enough;  some  of  his  sails  had  blown 
from  the  rigging,  some  were  backing  in  the  wind,  and 
some  were  flapping  and  shivering,  but  I  told  him 
which  way  to  head,  and  to  my  surprise  he  promised 
to  do  just  as  I  directed,  and  I  do  not  doubt  is  under 
full  sail  at  this  moment. 

What  if  I  should  tell  my  last,  my  very  recent  ex- 
perience with  the  other  sex?  I  received  a  paper  con- 
taining the  inner  history  of  a  young  woman's  life,  the 
evolution  of  her  consciousness  from  its  earliest  record 
of  itself,  written  so  thoughtfully,  so  sincerely,  with  so 
much  firmness  and  yet  so  much  delicacy,  with  such 
truth  of  detail  and  such  grace  in  the  manner  of  tell- 
ing, that  I  finished  the  long  manuscript  almost  at  a 
sitting,  with  a  pleasure  rarely,  almost  never  experi- 
enced in  voluminous  communications  which  one  has  to 
spell  out  of  handwriting.  This  was  from  a  correspon- 
dent who  made  my  acquaintance  by  letter  when  she 
was  little  more  than  a  child,  some  years  ago.  How 
easy  at  that  early  period  to  have  silenced  her  by  in- 
difference, to  have  wounded  her  by  a  careless  epithet, 
perhaps  even  to  have  crushed  her  as  one  puts  his  heel 
on  a  weed !  A  very  little  encouragement  kept  her 
from  despondency,  and  brought  back  one  of  those 
overflows  of  gratitude  which  make  one  more  ashamed 
of  himself  for  being  so  overpaid  than  he  would  be  for 
having  committed  any  of  the  lesser  sins.  But  what 
pleased  me  most  in  the  paper  lately  received  was  to  see 
how  far  the  writer  had  outgrown  the  need  of  any 
encouragement  of  mine ;  that  she  had  strengthened  out 


160    THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

of  her  tremulous  questionings  into  a  self-reliance  and 
self -poise  which  I  had  hardly  dared  to  anticipate  for 
her.  Some  of  my  readers  who  are  also  writers  have 
very  probably  had  more  numerous  experiences  of  this 
kind  than  I  can  lay  claim  to;  self -revelations  from 
unknown  and  sometimes  nameless  friends,  who  write 
from  strange  corners  where  the  winds  have  wafted 
some  stray  words  of  theirs  which  have  lighted  in  the 
minds  and  reached  the  hearts  of  those  to  whom  they 
were  as  the  angel  that  stirred  the  pool  of  Bethesda. 
Perhaps  this  is  the  best  reward  authorship  brings ;  it 
may  not  imply  much  talent  or  literary  excellence,  but 
it  means  that  your  way  of  thinking  and  feeling  is  just 
what  some  one  of  your  fellow-creatures  needed. 

—  I  have  been  putting  into  shape,  according  to  his 
request,  some  further  passages  from  the  Young  As- 
tronomer's manuscript,  some  of  which  the  reader  will 
have  a  chance  to  read  if  he  is  so  disposed.  The  con- 
flict in  the  young  man's  mind  between  the  desire  for 
fame  and  the  sense  of  its  emptiness  as  compared  with 
nobler  aims  has  set  me  thinking  about  the  subject 
from  a  somewhat  humbler  point  of  view.  As  I  am 
in  the  habit  of  telling  you,  Beloved,  many  of  my 
thoughts,  as  well  as  of  repeating  what  was  said  at  our 
table,  you  may  read  what  follows  as  if  it  were  ad- 
dressed to  you  in  the  course  of  an  ordinary  conversa- 
tion, where  I  claimed  rather  more  than  my  share,  as  I 
am  afraid  I  am  a  little  in  the  habit  of  doing. 

I  suppose  we  all,  those  of  us  who  write  in  verse  or 
prose,  have  the  habitual  feeling  that  we  should  like 
to  be  remembered.  It  is  to  be  awake  when  all  of 
those  who  were  round  us  have  been  long  wrapped  ID 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BEEAKFAST-TABLE.     161 

slumber.  It  is  a  pleasant  thought  enough  that  the 
name  by  which  we  have  been  called  shall  be  familiar 
on  the  lips  of  those  who  come  after  us,  and  the 
thoughts  that  wrought  themselves  out  in  our  intelli- 
gence, the  emotions  that  trembled  through  our  framesv 
shall  live  themselves  over  again  in  the  minds  and 
hearts  of  others. 

But  is  there  not  something  of  rest,  of  calm,  in  the 
thought  of  gently  and  gradually  fading  away  out  of 
human  remembrance?  What  line  have  we  written 
that  was  on  a  level  with  our  conceptions?  What  page 
of  ours  that  does  not  betray  some  weakness  we  would 
fain  have  left  unrecorded?  To  become  a  classic  and 
share  the  life  of  a  language  is  to  be  ever  open  to  crit- 
icisms, to  comparisons,  to  the  caprices  of  successive 
generations,  to  be  called  into  court  and  stand  a  trial 
before  a  new  jury,  once  or  more  than  once  in  every 
century.  To  be  forgotten  is  to  sleep  in  peace  with 
the  undisturbed  myriads,  no  longer  subject  to  the 
chills  and  heats,  the  blasts,  the  sleet,  the  dust,  which 
assail  in  endless  succession  that  shadow  of  a  man 
which  we  call  his  reputation.  The  line  which  dying 
we  could  wish  to  blot  has  been  blotted  out  for  us  by  a 
hand  so  tender,  so  patient,  so  used  to  its  kindly  task, 
that  the  page  looks  as  fair  as  if  it  had  never  borne  the 
record  of  our  infirmity  or  our  transgression.  And 
then  so  few  would  be  wholly  content  with  their  legacy 
of  fame.  You  remember  poor  Monsieur  Jacques's 
complaint  of  the  favoritism  shown  to  Monsieur  Ber- 
thier,  —  it  is  in  that  exquisite  "  Week  in  a  French 
Country-House."  "Have  you  seen  his  room?  Have 
you  seen  how  large  it  is  ?  Twice  as  large  as  mine ! 
He  has  two  jugs,  a  large  one  and  a  little  one.  1  have 
only  one  small  one.  And  a  tea-service  and  a  gilt 


162    THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

Cupid  on  the  top  of  his  looking-glass."  The  famous 
survivor  of  himself  has  had  his  features  preserved  in 
a  medallion,  and  the  slice  of  his  countenance  seems 
clouded  with  the  thought  that  it  does  not  belong  to  a 
bust;  the  bust  ought  to  look  happy  in  its  niche,  but 
the  statue  opposite  makes  it  feel  as  if  it  had  been 
cheated  out  of  half  its  personality,  and  the  statue  looks 
uneasy  because  another  stands  on  a  loftier  pedestal. 
But  "Ignotus"  and  "Miserrimus"  are  of  the  great 
majority  in  that  vast  assembly,  that  House  of  Com- 
mons whose  members  are  all  peers,  where  to  be  for- 
gotten is  the  standing  rule.  The  dignity  of  a  silent 
memory  is  not  to  be  undervalued.  Fame  is  after  all 
a  kind  of  rude  handling,  and  a  name  that  is  often  on 
vulgar  lips  seems  to  borrow  something  not  to  be  de- 
sired, as  the  paper  money  that  passes  from  hand  to 
hand  gains  somewhat  which  is  a  loss  thereby.  O 
sweet,  tranquil  refuge  of  oblivion,  so  far  as  earth  is 
concerned,  for  us  poor  blundering,  stammering,  mis- 
behaving creatures  who  cannot  turn  over  a  leaf  of  our 
life's  diary  without  feeling  thankful  that  its  failure 
can  no  longer  stare  us  in  the  face !  Not  unwelcome 
shall  be  the  baptism  of  dust  which  hides  forever  the 
name  that  was  given  in  the  baptism  of  water !  We 
shall  have  good  company  whose  names  are  left  un- 
spoken by  posterity.  "Who  knows  whether  the  best 
of  men  be  known,  or  whether  there  be  not  more  re- 
markable persons  forgot  than  any  that  stand  remem- 
bered in  the  known  account  of  time?  The  greater 
part  must  be  content  to  be  as  though  they  had  not 
been ;  to  be  found  in  the  register  of  God,  not  in  the 
record  of  man.  Twenty-seven  names  make  up  the 
first  story  before  the  flood,  and  the  recorded  names 
ever  since  contain  not  one  living  century." 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.    163 

I  have  my  moods  about  such  things  as  the  Young 
Astronomer  has,  as  we  all  have.  There  are  times 
when  the  thought  of  becoming  utterly  nothing  to  the 
world  we  knew  so  well  and  loved  so  much  is  painful 
and  oppressive ;  we  gasp  as  if  in  a  vacuum,  missing 
the  atmosphere  of  life  we  have  so  long  been  in  the  habit 
of  breathing.  Not  the  less  are  there  moments  when 
the  aching  need  of  repose  comes  over  us  and  the  re« 
quiescat  in  pace,  heathen  benediction  as  it  is,  sounds 
more  sweetly  in  our  ears  than  all  the  promises  that 
Fame  can  hold  out  to  us. 

I  wonder  whether  it  ever  occurred  to  you  to  reflect 
upon  another  horror  there  must  be  in  leaving  a  name 
behind  you.  Think  what  a  horrid  piece  of  work  the 
biographers  make  of  a  man's  private  history!  Just 
imagine  the  subject  of  one  of  those  extraordinary  fic- 
tions called  biographies  coming  back  and  reading  the 
life  of  himself,  written  very  probably  by  somebody  or 
other  who  thought  he  could  turn  a  penny  by  doing  it, 
and  having  the  pleasure  of  seeing 

«  His  little  bark  attendant  sail, 
Pursue  the  triumph  and  partake  the  gale." 

The  ghost  of  the  person  condemned  to  walk  the  earth 
in  a  biography  glides  into  a  public  library,  and  goes 
to  the  shelf  where  his  mummied  life  lies  in  its  pa- 
per cerements.  I  can  see  the  pale  shadow  glancing 
through  the  pages  and  hear  the  comments  that  shape 
themselves  in  the  bodiless  intelligence  as  if  they  were 
made  vocal  by  living  lips. 

"Born  in  July,  1776!"  And  my  honored  father 
killed  at  the  battle  of  Bunker  Hill !  Atrocious  libel- 
ler! to  slander  one's  family  at  the  start  after  such  a 
fashion ! 


164     THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

"The  death  of  his  parents  left  him  in  charge  of  his 
Aunt  Nancy,  whose  tender  care  took  the  place  of  those 
parental  attentions  which  should  have  guided  and  pro* 
tected  his  infant  years,  and  consoled  him  for  the  sever- 
ity of  another  relative." 

—  Aunt  Nancy  !     It  was  Aunt  Betsey,  you  fool ! 
Aunt  Nancy  used  to  —  she  has  been  dead  these  eighty 
years,   so  there  is  no  use  in  mincing  matters  —  she 
used  to  keep  a  bottle  and  a  stick,  and  when  she  had 
been  tasting  a  drop  out  of  the  bottle  the  stick  used  to 
come  off  the  shelf  and  I  had  to  taste  that.     And  here 
she  is  made  a  saint  of,  and  poor  Aunt  Betsey,  that 
did  everything  for  me,  is  slandered  by  implication  as 
a  horrid  tyrant ! 

"The  subject  of  this  commemorative  history  was 
remarkable  for  a  precocious  development  of  intelli- 
gence. An  old  nurse  who  saw  him  at  the  very  earli- 
est period  of  his  existence  is  said  to  have  spoken  of 
him  as  one  of  the  most  promising  infants  she  had  seen 
in  her  long  experience.  At  school  he  was  equally 
remarkable,  and  at  a  tender  age  he  received  a  paper 
adorned  with  a  cut,  inscribed  REWARD  OF  MERIT." 

—  I  don't  doubt  the  nurse  said  that,  —  there  were 
several  promising  children  born  about  that  time.     As 
for  cuts,  I  got  more  from  the  schoolmaster's  rattan 
than  in  any  other  shape.      Did  n't  one  of  my  teach- 
ers split  a  Gunter's  scale  into  three  pieces  over  the 
palm  of  my  hand?     And  didn't  I  grin  when  I  saw 
the  pieces  fly  ?     No  humbug,  now,  about  my  boyhood ! 

"His  personal  appearance  was  not  singularly  pre- 
possessing. Inconspicuous  in  stature  and  unattrac- 
tive in  features  "  — 

—  You  misbegotten  son  of  an  ourang  and  grandson 
of  an  ascidian  (ghosts  keep  up  with  science,  you  ob- 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.    165 

serve),  what  business  have  you  to  be  holding  up  my 
person  to  the  contempt  of  my  posterity?  Haven't  I 
been  sleeping  for  this  many  a  year  in  quiet,  and  don't 
the  dandelions  and  buttercups  look  as  yellow  over  me 
as  over  the  best-looking  neighbor  I  have  in  the  dor- 
mitory? Why  do  you  want  to  people  the  minds  of 
everybody  that  reads  your  good-for-nothing  libel  which 
you  call  a  "biography"  with  your  impudent  carica- 
tures of  a  man  who  was  a  better-looking  fellow  than 
yourself,  I  '11  bet  you  ten  to  one,  a  man  whom  his 
Latin  tutor  called  formosus  puer  when  he  was  only  a 
freshman?  If  that 's  what  it  means  to  make  a  repu- 
tation, —  to  leave  your  character  and  your  person,  and 
the  good  name  of  your  sainted  relatives,  and  all  you 
were,  and  all  you  had  and  thought  and  felt,  so  far  as 
can  be  gathered  by  digging  you  out  of  your  most  pri- 
vate records,  to  be  manipulated  and  bandied  about 
and  cheapened  in  the  literary  market  as  a  chicken  or 
a  turkey  or  a  goose  is  handled  and  bargained  over  at 
a  provision  stall,  is  n't  it  better  to  be  content  with  the 
honest  blue  slate-stone  and  its  inscription  informing 
posterity  that  you  were  a  worthy  citizen  and  a  re- 
spected father  of  a  family  ? 

—  I  should  like  to  see  any  man's  biography  with 
corrections  and  emendations  by  his  ghost.  We  don't 
know  each  other's  secrets  quite  so  well  as  we  flatter 
ourselves  we  do.  We  don't  always  know  our  own  se- 
crets as  well  as  we  might.  You  have  seen  a  tree  with 
different  grafts  upon  it,  an  apple  or  a  pear  tree  we 
will  say.  In  the  late  summer  months  the  fruit  on  one 
bough  will  ripen ;  I  remember  just  such  a  tree,  and 
the  early  ripening  fruit  was  the  Jargonelle.  By  and 
by  the  fruit  of  another  bough  will  begin  to  come  into 
condition ;  the  lovely  Saint  Michael,  as  I  remember, 


166     THE  POET  AT  THE  BKEAKFAST-TABLE. 

grew  on  the  same  stock  as  the  Jargonelle  in  the  tree 
I  am  thinking  of ;  and  then,  when  these  have  all  fallen 
or  been  gathered,  another,  we  will  say  the  Winter 
Nelis,  has  its  turn,  and  so  out  of  the  same  juices  have 
come  in  succession  fruits  of  the  most  varied  aspects 
and  flavors.  It  is  the  same  thing  with  ourselves,  but 
it  takes  us  a  long  while  to  find  it  out.  The  various 
inherited  instincts  ripen  in  succession.  You  may  be 
nine  tenths  paternal  at  one  period  of  your  life,  and 
nine  tenths  maternal  at  another.  All  at  once  the 
traits  of  some  immediate  ancestor  may  come  to  matu- 
rity unexpectedly  on  one  of  the  branches  of  your  char- 
acter, just  as  your  features  at  different  periods  of  your 
life  betray  different  resemblances  to  your  nearer  or 
more  remote  relatives. 

But  I  want  you  to  let  me  go  back  to  the  Bunker 
Hill  Monument  and  the  dynasty  of  twenty  or  thirty 
centuries  whose  successive  representatives  are  to  sit 
in  the  gate,  like  the  Jewish  monarchs,  while  the  peo- 
ple shall  come  by  hundreds  and  by  thousands  to  visit 
the  memorial  shaft  until  the  story  of  Bunker's  Hill  is 
as  old  as  that  of  Marathon. 

Would  not  one  like  to  attend  twenty  consecutive 
soirees,  at  each  one  of  which  the  lion  of  the  party 
should  be  the  Man  of  the  Monument,  at  the  beginning 
of  each  century,  all  the  way,  we  will  say,  from  Anno 
Domini  2000  to  Ann.  Dom.  4000,  — or,  if  you  think 
the  style  of  dating  will  be  changed,  say  to  Ann.  Dar- 
winii  (we  can  keep  A.  D.  you  see)  1872?  Will  the 
Man  be  of  the  Indian  type,  as  President  Samuel  Stan- 
hope Smith  and  others  have  supposed  the  transplanted 
European  will  become  by  and  by?  Will  he  have 
shortened  down  to  four  feet  and  a  little  more,  like  the 
Esquimaux,  or  will  he  have  been  bred  up  to  seven  feet 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.    167 

by  the  use  of  new  chemical  diets,  ozonized  and  other- 
wise improved  atmospheres,  and  animal  fertilizers? 
Let  us  summon  him  in  imagination  and  ask  him  a  few 
questions. 

Is  n't  it  like  splitting  a  toad  out  of  a  rock  to  think 
of  this  man  of  nineteen  or  twenty  centuries  hence 
coming  out  from  his  stony  dwelling-place  and  speaking 
with  us?  What  are  the  questions  we  should  ask  him? 
He  has  but  a  few  minutes  to  stay.  Make  out  your 
own  list ;  I  will  set  down  a  few  that  come  up  to  me  as 
I  write. 

—  What  is  the  prevalent  religious  creed  of  civiliza- 
tion? 

—  Has  the  planet  met  with  any  accident  of  impor- 
tance? 

—  How  general  is  the  republican  form  of  govern- 
ment? 

—  Do  men  fly  yet? 

—  Has  the  universal  language  come  into  use  ? 

—  Is  there  a  new  fuel  since  the  English  coal-mines 
have  given  out? 

—  Is  the  euthanasia  a  recognized  branch  of  medical 
science? 

—  Is  the  oldest  inhabitant  still  living? 

—  Is  the  Daily  Advertiser  still  published? 

—  And  the  Evening  Transcript  ? 

—  Is  there  much  inquiry  for  the  works  of  a  writer 
of  the  nineteenth   century   (Old  Style)  by  —  the — • 
name of  —  of  — 

My  tongue  cleaves  to  the  roof  of  my  mouth.  I 
cannot  imagine  the  putting  of  that  question  without 
feeling  the  tremors  which  shake  a  wooer  as  he  falters 
out  the  words  the  answer  to  which  will  make  him 
happy  or  wretched. 


168    THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

Whose  works  was  I  going  to  question  him  about,  do 
you  ask  me? 

Oh,  the  writings  of  a  friend  of  mine,  much  esteemed 
by  his  relatives  and  others.  But  it 's  of  no  conse- 
quence, after  all;  I  think  he  says  he  does  not  care 
much  for  posthumous  reputation. 

I  find  something  of  the  same  interest  in  thinking4 
about  one  of  the  boarders  at  our  table  that  I  find  in 
my  waking  dreams  concerning  the  Man  of  the  Monu- 
ment. This  personage  is  the  Kegister  of  Deeds.  He 
is  an  unemotional  character,  living  in  his  business 
almost  as  exclusively  as  the  Scarabee,  but  without  any 
of  that  eagerness  and  enthusiasm  which  belong  to 
our  scientific  specialist.  His  work  is  largely,  prin- 
cipally, I  may  say,  mechanical.  He  has  developed, 
however,  a  certain  amount  of  taste  for  the  antiquities  of 
his  department,  and  once  in  a  while  brings  out  some 
curious  result  of  his  investigations  into  ancient  docu- 
ments. He  too  belongs  to  a  dynasty  which  will  last 
as  long  as  there  is  such  a  thing  as  property  in  land 
and  dwellings.  When  that  is  done  away  with,  and  we 
return  to  the  state  of  villanage,  holding  our  tenement- 
houses,  all  to  be  of  the  same  pattern,  of  the  State,  — 
that  is  to  say,  of  the  Tammany  Ring  which  is  to  take 
the  place  of  the  feudal  lord,  —  the  office  of  Register 
of  Deeds  will,  I  presume,  become  useless,  and  the 
dynasty  will  be  deposed. 

As  we  grow  older  we  think  more  and  more  of  old 
persons  and  of  old  things  and  places.  As  to  old  per. 
sons,  it  seems  as  if  we  never  know  how  much  they 
have  to  tell  until  we  are  old  ourselves  and  they  have 
been  gone  twenty  or  thirty  years.  Once  in  a  while  we 
come  upon  some  survivor  of  his  or  her  generation  that 
we  have  overlooked,  and  feel  as  if  we  had  recovered 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.    169 

one  of  the  lost  books  of  Livy  or  fished  up  the  golden 
candlestick  from  the  ooze  of  the  Tiber.  So  it  was  the 
other  day  after  my  reminiscences  of  the  old  gambrel- 
roofed  house  and  its  visitors.  They  found  an  echo  in 
the  recollections  of  one  of  the  brightest  and  liveliest  of 
my  suburban  friends,  whose  memory  is  exact  about 
everything  except  her  own  age,  which,  there  can  be 
no  doubt,  she  makes  out  a  score  or  two  of  years  more 
than  it  really  is.  Still  she  was  old  enough  to  touch 
some  lights  —  and  a  shadow  or  two  —  into  the  portraits 
I  had  drawn,  which  made  me  wish  that  she  and  not 
I  had  been  the  artist  who  sketched  the  pictures. 
Among  the  lesser  regrets  that  mingle  with  graver  sor- 
rows for  the  friends  of  an  earlier  generation  we  have 
lost,  are  our  omissions  to  ask  them  so  many  questions 
they  could  have  answered  easily  enough,  and  would 
have  been  pleased  to  be  asked.  There !  I  say  to  my- 
self sometimes,  in  an  absent  mood,  I  must  ask  her 
about  that.  But  she  of  whom  I  am  now  thinking  has 
long  been  beyond  the  reach  of  any  earthly  question- 
ing, and  I  sigh  to  think  how  easily  I  could  have 
learned  some  fact  which  I  should  have  been  happy  to 
have  transmitted  with  pious  care  to  those  who  are  to 
come  after  me.  How  many  times  I  have  heard  her 
quote  the  line  about  blessings  brightening  as  they  take 
their  flight,  and  how  true  it  proves  in  many  little  ways 
that  one  never  thinks  of  until  it  is  too  late  ! 

The  Register  of  Deeds  is  not  himself  advanced  in 
years.  But  he  borrows  an  air  of  antiquity  from  the 
ancient  records  which  are  stored  in  his  sepulchral 
archives.  I  love  to  go  to  his  ossuary  of  dead  transac- 
tions, as  I  would  visit  the  catacombs  of  Rome  or 
Paris.  It  is  like  wandering  up  the  Nile  to  stray 
among  the  shelves  of  his  monumental  folios.  Here 


170    THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

stands  a  series  of  volumes,  extending  over  a  consider- 
able number  of  years,  all  of  which  volumes  are  in  his 
handwriting.  But  as  you  go  backward  there  is  a 
break,  and  you  come  upon  the  writing  of  another  per- 
son, who  was  getting  old  apparently,  for  it  is  begin- 
ning to  be  a  little  shaky,  and  then  you  know  that  you 
have  gone  back  as  far  as  the  last  days  of  his  predeces- 
sor. Thirty  or  forty  years  more  carry  you  to  the  time 
when  this  incumbent  began  the  duties  of  his  office; 
his  hand  was  steady  then ;  and  the  next  volume  be- 
yond it  in  date  betrays  the  work  of  a  still  different 
writer.  All  this  interests  me,  but  I  do  not  see  how  it 
is  going  to  interest  my  reader.  I  do  not  feel  very 
happy  about  the  Register  of  Deeds.  What  can  I  do 
with  him?  Of  what  use  is  he  going  to  be  in  my  rec- 
ord of  what  I  have  seen  and  heard  at  the  breakfast- 
table?  The  fact  of  his  being  one  of  the  boarders  was 
not  so  important  that  I  was  obliged  to  speak  of  him, 
and  I  might  just  as  well  have  drawn  on  my  imagina- 
tion and  not  allowed  this  dummy  to  take  up  the  room 
which  another  guest  might  have  profitably  filled  at  our 
breakfast-table. 

I  suppose  lie  will  prove  a  superfluity,  but  I  have 
got  him  on  my  hands,  and  I  mean  that  he  shall  be 
as  little  in  the  way  as  possible.  One  always  comes 
across  people  in  actual  life  who  have  no  particular 
business  to  be  where  we  find  them,  and  whose  right  to 
be  at  all  is  somewhat  questionable. 

I  am  not  going  to  get  rid  of  the  Register  of  Deeds 
by  putting  him  out  of  the  way ;  but  I  confess  I  do  not 
see  of  what  service  he  is  going  to  be  to  me  in  my  rec- 
ord. I  have  often  found,  however,  that  the  Disposer 
of  men  and  things  understands  much  better  than  we 
do  how  to  place  his  pawns  and  other  pieces  on  the 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.    171 

chess-board  of  life.  A  fish  more  or  less  in  the  ocean 
does  not  seem  to  amount  to  much.  It  is  not  extrava- 
gant to  say  that  any  one  fish  may  be  considered 
a  supernumerary.  But  when  Captain  Coram's  ship 
sprung  a  leak  and  the  carpenter  could  not  stop  it,  and 
the  passengers  had  made  up  their  minds  that  it  was 
all  over  with  them,  all  at  once,  without  any  apparent 
reason,  the  pumps  began  gaining  on  the  leak,  and  the 
sinking  ship  to  lift  herself  out  of  the  abyss  which  was 
swallowing  her  up.  And  what  do  you  think  it  was 
that  saved  the  ship,  and  Captain  Coram,  and  so  in  due 
time  gave  to  London  that  Foundling  Hospital  which 
he  endowed,  and  under  the  floor  of  which  he  lies 
buried  ?  Why,  it  was  that  very  supernumerary  fish, 
which  we  held  of  so  little  account,  but  which  had 
wedged  itself  into  the  rent  of  the  yawning  planks, 
and  served  to  keep  out  the  water  until  the  leak  was 
finally  stopped. 

I  am  very  sure  it  was  Captain  Coram,  but  I  almost 
hope  it  was  somebody  else,  in  order  to  give  some  poor 
fellow  who  is  lying  in  wait  for  the  periodicals  a  chance 
to  correct  me.  That  will  make  him  happy  for  a 
month,  and  besides,  he  will  not  want  to  pick  a  quarrel 
about  anything  else  if  he  has  that  splendid  triumph. 
You  remember  Alcibiades  and  his  dog's  tail. 

Here  you  have  the  extracts  I  spoke  of  from  the 
manuscript  placed  in  my  hands  for  revision  and  emen- 
dation. I  can  understand  these  alternations  of  feel- 
ing in  a  young  person  who  has  been  long  absorbed 
in  a  single  pursuit,  and  in  whom  the  human  instincts 
which  have  been  long  silent  are  now  beginning  to 
find  expression.  I  know  well  what  he  wants ;  a  great 
deal  better,  I  think,  than  he  knows  himself. 


172    THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

WIND-CLOUDS  AND  STAR-DRIFTS, 
ii. 

Brief  glimpses  of  the  bright  celestial  spheres, 
False  lights,  false  shadows,  vague,  uncertain  gleams, 
Pale  vaporous  mists,  wan  streaks  of  lurid  flame, 
The  climbing  of  the  upward-sailing  cloud, 
The  sinking  of  the  downward-falling  star,  — 
All  these  are  pictures  of  the  changing  moods 
Borne  through  the  midnight  stillness  of  my  soul. 

Here  am  I,  bound  upon  this  pillared  rock, 

Prey  to  the  vulture  of  a  vast  desire 

That  feeds  upon  my  life.     I  burst  my  bands 

And  steal  a  moment's  freedom  from  the  beak, 

The  clinging  talons  and  the  shadowing  plumes  ; 

Then  comes  the  false  enchantress,  with  her  song  ; 

"  Thou  wouldst  not  lay  thy  forehead  in  the  dust 

Like  the  base  herd  that  feeds  and  breeds  and  dies  ! 

Lo,  the  fair  garlands  that  I  weave  for  thee, 

Unchanging  as  the  belt  Orion  wears, 

Bright  as  the  jewels  of  the  seven-starred  Crown, 

The  spangled  stream  of  Berenice's  hair  !  " 

And  so  she  twines  the  fetters  with  the  flowers 

Around  my  yielding  limbs,  and  the  fierce  bird 

Stoops  to  his  quarry,  —  then  to  feed  his  rage 

Of  ravening  hunger  I  must  drain  my  blood 

And  let  the  dew-drenched,  poison-breeding  night 

Steal  all  the  freshness  from  my  fading  cheek, 

And  leave  its  shadows  round  my  caverned  eyes. 

All  for  a  line  in  some  unheeded  scroll  ; 

All  for  a  stone  that  tells  to  gaping  clowns, 

"  Here  lies  a  restless  wretch  beneath  a  clod 

Where  squats  the  jealous  nightmare  men  call  Fame  ! " 

I  marvel  not  at  him  who  scorns  his  kind 
And  thinks  not  sadly  of  the  time  foretold 
When  the  old  hulk  we  tread  shall  be  a  wreck, 
A  slag,  a  cinder  drifting  through  the  sky 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BKEAKF AST-TABLE.    173 

Without  its  crew  of  fools  !     We  live  too  long 

And  even  so  are  not  content  to  die, 

But  load  the  mould  that  covers  up  our  bones 

With  stones  that  stand  like  beggars  by  the  road 

And  shew  death's  grievous  wound  and  ask  for  tears  ; 

Write  our  great  books  to  teach  men  who  we  are, 

Sing  our  fine  songs  that  tell  in  artful  phrase 

The  secrets  of  our  lives,  and  plead  and  pray 

For  alms  of  memory  with  the  after  time, 

Those  few  swift  seasons  while  the  earth  shall  wear 

Its  leafy  summers,  ere  its  core  grows  cold 

And  the  moist  life  of  all  that  breathes  shall  die; 

Or  as  the  new-born  seer,  perchance  more  wise, 

Would  have  us  deem,  before  its  growing  mass, 

Pelted  with  star-dust,  stoned  with  meteor-balls, 

Heats  like  a  hammered  anvil,  till  at  last 

Man  and  his  works  and  all  that  stirred  itself 

Of  its  own  motion,  in  the  fiery  glow 

Turns  to  a  flaming  vapor,  and  our  orb 

Shines  a  new  sun  for  earths  that  shall  be  born. 

I  am  as  old  as  Egypt  to  myself, 

Brother  to  them  that  squared  the  pyramids 

By  the  same  stars  I  watch.     I  read  the  page 

Where  every  letter  is  a  glittering  world, 

With  them  who  looked  from  Shinar's  clay-built  towers, 

Ere  yet  the  wanderer  of  the  Midland  sea 

Had  missed  the  fallen  sister  of  the  seven. 

I  dwell  in  spaces  vague,  remote,  unknown, 

Save  to  the  silent  few,  who,  leaving  earth, 

Quit  all  communion  with  their  living  time. 

I  lose  myself  in  that  ethereal  void, 

Till  I  have  tired  my  wings  and  long  to  fill 

My  breast  with  denser  air,  to  stand,  to  walk 

With  eyes  not  raised  above  my  fellow-men. 

Sick  of  my  unwalled,  solitary  realm, 

I  ask  to  change  the  myriad  lifeless  worlds 

I  visit  as  mine  own  for  one  poor  patch 

Of  this  dull  spheroid  and  a  little  breath 

To  shape  in  word  or  deed  to  serve  my  kind. 


174    THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

Was  ever  giant's  dungeon  dug  so  deep, 
Was  ever  tyrant's  fetter  forged  so  strong, 
Was  e'er  such  deadly  poison  in  the  draught 
The  false  wife  mingles  for  the  trusting  fool, 
As  he  whose  willing  victim  is  himself, 
Digs,  forges,  mingles,  for  his  captive  soul  ? 


VII. 

I  was  very  sure  that  the  old  Master  was  hard  at 
work  about  something,  —  he  is  always  very  busy  with 
something,  —  but  I  mean  something  particular. 

Whether  it  was  a  question  of  history  or  of  cosmo- 
gony, or  whether  he  was  handling  a  test-tube  or  a 
blow-pipe;  what  he  was  about  I  did  not  feel  sure; 
but  I  took  it  for  granted  that  it  was  some  crucial  ques- 
tion or  other  he  was  at  work  on,  some  point  bearing 
on  the  thought  of  the  time.  For  the  Master,  I  have 
observed,  is  pretty  sagacious  in  striking  for  the  points 
where  his  work  will  be  like  to  tell.  We  all  know  that 
class  of  scientific  laborers  to  whom  all  facts  are  alike 
nourishing  mental  food,  and  who  seem  to  exercise  no 
choice  whatever,  provided  only  they  can  get  hold  of 
these  same  indiscriminate  facts  in  quantity  sufficient. 
They  browse  on  them,  as  the  animal  to  which  they 
would  not  like  to  be  compared  browses  on  his  thistles. 
But  the  Master  knows  the  movement  of  the  age  he  be- 
longs to ;  and  if  he  seems  to  be  busy  with  what  looks 
like  a  small  piece  of  trivial  experimenting,  one  may 
feel  pretty  sure  that  he  knows  what  he  is  about,  and 
that  his  minute  operations  are  looking  to  a  result  that 
will  help  him  towards  attaining  his  great  end  in  life, 
—  an  insight,  so  far  as  his  faculties  and  opportunities 
will  allow,  into  that  order  of  things  which  he  believes 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.    175 

he  can  study  with  some  prospect  of  taking  in  its  sig- 
nificance. 

I  became  so  anxious  to  know  what  particular  matter 
he  was  busy  with,  that  I  had  to  call  upon  him  to  sat- 
isfy my  curiosity.  It  was  with  a  little  trepidation 
that  I  knocked  at  his  door.  I  felt  a  good  deal  as  one 
might  have  felt  on  disturbing  an  alchemist  at  his  work, 
at  the  very  moment,  it  might  be,  when  he  was  about 
to  make  projection. 

—  Come  in !  —  said  the  Master  in  his  grave,  mas- 
sive tones. 

I  passed  through  the  library  with  him  into  a  little 
room  evidently  devoted  to  his  experiments. 

—  You  have  come  just  at  the  right  moment,  —  he 
said.  —  Your  eyes  are  better  than  mine.     I  have  been 
looking  at  this  flask,  and  I  should  like  to  have  you 
look  at  it. 

It  was  a  small  matrass,  as  one  of  the  elder  chemists 
would  have  called  it,  containing  a  fluid,  and  hermeti- 
cally sealed.  He  held  it  up  at  the  window;  perhaps 
you  remember  the  physician  holding  a  flask  to  the 
light  in  Gerard  Douw's  "Femme  hydropique";  I 
thought  of  that  fine  figure  as  I  looked  at  him.  — 
Look !  —  said  he,  —  is  it  clear  or  cloudy  ? 

—  You  need  not   ask  me   that,  —  I  answered.  — 
It  is  very  plainly  turbid.     I  should  think  that  some 
sediment   had  been  shaken   up  in  it.     What   is  it, 
Elixir  Vitce  or  Aurum  potabile  ? 

—  Something  that  means  more  than  alchemy  ever 
did!     Boiled  just  three  hours,  and  as  clear  as  a  bell 
until  within  the  last  few  days;  since  then  has  been 
clouding  up. 

—  I  began  to  form  a  pretty  shrewd  guess  at  the 
meaning  of  all  this,  and  to  think  I  knew  very  nearly 


176    THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

what  was  coming  next.  I  was  right  in  my  conjecture. 
The  Master  broke  off  the  sealed  end  of  his  little  flask, 
took  out  a  small  portion  of  the  fluid  on  a  glass  rod, 
and  placed  it  on  a  slip  of  glass  in  the  usual  way  for  a 
microscopic  examination. 

—  One  thousand  diameters,  —  he  said,  as  he  placed 
it  on  the  stage  of   the  microscope.  —  We  shall  find 
signs  of  life,  of  course.  —  He  bent  over  the  instrument 
and  looked  but  an  instant. 

—  There  they  are  !  —  he  exclaimed,  —  look  in. 

I  looked  in  and  saw  some  objects  not  very  unlike 
these  :  — 

—  00 


The  straight  linear  bodies  were  darting  backward 
and  forward  in  every  direction.  The  wavy  ones  were 
wriggling  about  like  eels  or  water-snakes.  The  round 
ones  were  spinning  on  their  axes  and  rolling  in  every 
direction.  All  of  them  were  in  a  state  of  incessant 
activity,  as  if  perpetually  seeking  something  and  never 
finding  it. 

They  are  tough,  the  germs  of  these  little  bodies,  — 
said  the  Master.  —  Three  hours'  boiling  hasn't  killed 
'em.  Now,  then,  let  us  see  what  has  been  the  effect 
of  six  hours'  boiling. 

He  took  up  another  flask  just  like  the  first,  con- 
taining fluid  and  hermetically  sealed  in  the  same  way. 

—  Boiled  just  three  hours  longer  than  the  other,  — 
he  said,  —  six  hours  in  all.     This  is  the  experimentum 
crucis.     Do  you  see  any  cloudiness  in  it? 

—  Not  a  sign  of  it  ;  it  is  as  clear  as  crystal,  except 
that  there  may  be  a  little  sediment  at  the  bottom. 

—  That  is  nothing.     The  liquid  is  clear.     We  shall 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.    177 

find  no  signs  of  life.  —  He  put  a  minute  drop  of  the 
liquid  under  the  microscope  as  before.  Nothing 
stirred.  Nothing  to  be  seen  but  a  clear  circle  of  light. 
We  looked  at  it  again  and  again,  but  with  the  same 
result. 

—  Six  hours  kill  'em  all,  according  to  this  experi- 
ment, —  said  the  Master.  —  Good  as  far  as  it  goes. 
One  more  negative  result.  Do  you  know  what  would 
have  happened  if  that  liquid  had  been  clouded,  and  we 
had  found  life  in  the  sealed  flask?  Sir,  if  that  liquid 
had  held  life  in  it  the  Vatican  would  have  trembled 
to  hear  it,  and  there  would  have  been  anxious  ques- 
tionings and  ominous  whisperings  in  the  halls  of  Lam- 
beth palace !  The  accepted  cosmogonies  on  trial,  sir ! 
Traditions,  sanctities,  creeds,  ecclesiastical  establish- 
ments, all  shaking  to  know  whether  my  little  six- 
penny flask  of  fluid  looks  muddy  or  not!  I  don't 
know  whether  to  laugh  or  shudder.  The  thought 
of  an  oecumenical  council  having  its  leading  feature 
dislocated  by  my  trifling  experiment !  The  thought, 
again,  of  the  mighty  revolution  in  human  beliefs  and 
affairs  that  might  grow  out  of  the  same  insignificant 
little  phenomenon.  A  wineglassful  of  clear  liquid 
growing  muddy.  If  we  had  found  a  wriggle,  or  a 
zigzag,  or  a  shoot  from  one  side  to  the  other,  in  this 
last  flask,  what  a  scare  there  would  have  been,  to  be 
sure,  in  the  schools  of  the  prophets !  Talk  about  your 
megatherium  and  your  megalosaurus,  —  what  are 
these  to  the  bacterium  and  the  vibrio  ?  These  are  the 
dreadful  monsters  of  to-day.  If  they  show  them- 
selves where  they  have  no  business,  the  little  rascals 
frighten  honest  folks  worse  than  ever  people  were 
frightened  by  the  Dragon  of  Rhodes ! 

The  Master  gets  going  sometimes,  there  is  no  deny- 


178     THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

ing  it,  until  his  imagination  runs  away  with  him.  He 
had  been  trying,  as  the  reader  sees,  one  of  those 
curious  experiments  in  spontaneous  generation,  as  it 
is  called,  which  have  been  so  often  instituted  of  late 
years,  and  by  none  more  thoroughly  than  by  that 
eminent  American  student  of  nature l  whose  process 
he  had  imitated  with  a  result  like  his. 

We  got  talking  over  these  matters  among  us  the 
next  morning  at  the  breakfast-table. 

We  must  agree  they  couldn't  stand  six  hours' 
boiling,  —  I  said. 

—  Good  for  the  Pope  of  Rome !  —  exclaimed  the 
Master. 

—  The  Landlady  drew  back  with  a  certain  expres- 
sion of  dismay  in  her  countenance.     She  hoped  he 
did  n't  want  the  Pope  to  make  any  more  converts  in 
this  country.     She  had  heard  a  sermon  only  last  Sab- 
bath, and  the  minister  had  made  it  out,  she  thought, 
as  plain  as  could  be,  that  the  Pope  was  the  Man  of 
Sin  and  that  the  Church  of  Rome  was  —     Well,  there 
was  very  strong  names  applied  to  her  in  Scripture. 

What  was  good  for  the  Pope  was  good  for  your 
minister,  too,  my  dear  madam,  —  said  the  Master.  — 
Good  for  everybody  that  is  afraid  of  what  people  call 
"science."  If  it  should  prove  that  dead  things  come 
to  life  of  themselves,  it  would  be  awkward,  you  know, 
because  then  somebody  will  get  up  and  say  if  one 
dead  thing  made  itself  alive  another  might,  and  so  per- 
haps the  earth  peopled  itself  without  any  help.  Pos- 
sibly the  difficulty  would  n't  be  so  great  as  many  peo- 
ple suppose.  We  might  perhaps  find  room  for  a 
Creator  after  all,  as  we  do  now,  though  we  see  a  little 
brown  seed  grow  till  it  sucks  up  the  juices  of  half  an 
1  Professor  Jeffries  Wyman. 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.    179 

acre  of  ground,  apparently  all  by  its  own  inherent 
power.  That  does  not  stagger  us ;  I  am  not  sure  that 
it  would  if  Mr.  Crosse's  or  Mr.  Weekes's  acarus 
should  show  himself  all  of  a  sudden,  as  they  said  he 
did,  in  certain  mineral  mixtures  acted  on  by  electri- 
city. 

The  Landlady  was  off  soundings,  and  looking  va- 
cant enough  by  this  time. 

The  Master  turned  to  me.  —  Don't  think  too  much 
of  the  result  of  our  one  experiment.  It  means  some- 
thing, because  it  confirms  those  other  experiments  of 
which  it  was  a  copy ;  but  we  must  remember  that  a 
hundred  negatives  don't  settle  such  a  question.  Life 
does  get  into  the  world  somehow.  You  don't  suppose 
Adam  had  the  cutaneous  unpleasantness  politely  called 
psora,  do  you? 

—  Hardly,  —  I  answered.  —  He  must  have  been  a 
walking  hospital  if  he  carried  all  the  maladies  about 
him  which  have  plagued  his  descendants. 

—  Well,  then,  how  did   the  little   beast  which  is 
peculiar  to  that  special  complaint  intrude  himself  into 
the  Order  of  Things?     You  don't  suppose  there  was 
a  special  act  of  creation  for  the  express  purpose  of 
bestowing  that  little  wretch  on  humanity,  do  you? 

I  thought,  on  the  whole,  I  would  n't  answer  that 
question. 

—  You  and  I  are  at  work  on  the  same  problem,  — 
said  the  Young  Astronomer  to  the  Master.  —  I  have 
looked  into  a  microscope  now  and  then,  and  I  have 
seen  that  perpetual  dancing  about  of  minute  atoms  in 
a  fluid,  which  you  call  molecular  motion.     Just  so, 
when  I  look  through  my  telescope  I  see  the  star-dust 
whirling  about  in  the  infinite  expanse  of  ether;    or 
if  I  do  not  see  its  motion,  I  know  that  it  is  only  on 


180    THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

account  of  its  immeasurable  distance.  Matter  and 
motion  everywhere ;  void  and  rest  nowhere.  You  ask 
why  your  restless  microscopic  atoms  may  not  come 
together  and  become  self-conscious  and  self -moving 
organisms.  I  ask  why  my  telescopic  star-dust  may 
not  come  together  and  grow  and  organize  into  habita- 
ble worlds,  —  the  ripened  fruit  on  the  branches  of  the 
tree  Yggdrasil,  if  I  may  borrow  from  our  friend  the 
Poet's  province.  It  frightens  people,  though,  to  hear 
the  suggestion  that  worlds  shape  themselves  from  star- 
mist.  It  does  not  trouble  them  at  all  to  see  the  wa- 
tery spheres  that  round  themselves  into  being  out  of 
the  vapors  floating  over  us ;  they  are  nothing  but  rain- 
drops. But  if  a  planet  can  grow  as  a  rain -drop  grows, 
why  then  —  It  was  a  great  comfort  to  these  timid 
folk  when  Lord  Rosse's  telescope  resolved  certain  neb- 
ulae into  star-clusters.  Sir  John  Herschel  would  have 
told  them  that  this  made  little  difference  in  accounting 
for  the  formation  of  worlds  by  aggregation,  but  at 
any  rate  it  was  a  comfort  to  them. 

—  These  people  have  always  been  afraid  of  the  as- 
tronomers, —  said  the  Master.  —  They  were  shy,  you 
know,  of  the  Copernican  system,  for  a  long  while; 
well  they  might  be  with  an  oubliette  waiting  for  them 
if  they  ventured  to  think  that  the  earth  moved  round 
the  sun.  Science  settled  that  point  finally  for  them, 
at  length,  and  then  it  was  all  right,  —  when  there  was 
no  use  in  disputing  the  fact  any  longer.  By  and  by 
geology  began  turning  up  fossils  that  told  extraordi- 
nary stories  about  the  duration  of  life  upon  our  planet. 
What  subterfuges  were  not  used  to  get  rid  of  their 
evidence !  Think  of  a  man  seeing  the  fossilized  skel- 
eton of  an  animal  split  out  of  a  quarry,  his  teeth  worn 
down  by  mastication,  and  the  remains  of  food  still  vis- 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE,     181 

ible  in  his  interior,  and,  in  order  to  get  rid  of  a  piece 
of  evidence  contrary  to  the  traditions  he  holds  to,  seri- 
ously maintaining  that  this  skeleton  never  belonged 
to  a  living  creature,  but  was  created  with  just  these 
appearances;  a  make-believe,  a  sham,  a  Barnum's. 
mermaid  contrivance  to 'amuse  its  Creator  and  impose 
upon  his  intelligent  children !  And  now  people  talk 
about  geological  epochs  and  hundreds  of  millions  of 
years  in  the  planet's  history  as  calmly  as  if  they  were 
discussing  the  age  of  their  deceased  great-grandmo- 
thers. Ten  or  a  dozen  years  ago  people  said  Sh!  Sh! 
if  you  ventured  to  meddle  with  any  question  supposed 
to  involve  a  doubt  of  the  generally  accepted  Hebrew 
traditions.  To-day  such  questions  are  recognized  as 
perfectly  fair  subjects  for  general  conversation ;  not  in 
the  basement  story,  perhaps,  or  among  the  rank  and 
file  of  the  curbstone  congregations,  but  among  intelli- 
gent and  educated  persons.  You  may  preach  about 
them  in  your  pulpit,  you  may  lecture  about  them,  you 
may  talk  about  them  with  the  first  sensible-looking 
person  you  happen  to  meet,  you  may  write  magazine 
articles  about  them,  and  the  editor  need  not  expect  to 
receive  remonstrances  from  angry  subscribers  and  with- 
drawals of  subscriptions,  as  he  would  have  been  sure 
to  not  a  great  many  years  ago.  Why,  you  may  go  to 
a  tea-party  where  the  clergyman's  wife  shows  her  best 
cap  and  his  daughters  display  their  shining  ringlets, 
and  you  will  hear  the  company  discussing  the  Dar- 
winian theory  of  the  origin  of  the  human  race  as  if  it 
were  as  harmless  a  question  as  that  of  the  lineage  of  a 
spinster's  lapdog.  You  may  see  a  fine  lady  who  is  as 
particular  in  her  genuflections  as  any  Buddhist  or  Ma- 
hometan saint  in  his  manifestations  of  reverence,  who 
will  talk  over  the  anthropoid  ape,  the  supposed  founder 


182     THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

of  the  family  to  which  we  belong,  and  even  go  back 
with  you  to  the  acephalous  mollusk,  first  cousin  to 
the  clams  and  mussels,  whose  rudimeiital  spine  was  the 
hinted  prophecy  of  humanity;  all  this  time  never 
dreaming,  apparently,  that  what  she  takes  for  a  mat- 
ter of  curious  speculation  involves  the  whole  future  of 
human  progress  and  destiny. 

I  can't  help  thinking  that  if  we  had  talked  as  freely 
as  we  can  and  do  now  in  the  days  of  the  first  boarder 
at  this  table,  —  I  mean  the  one  who  introduced  it  to 
the  public,  —  it  would  have  sounded  a  good  deal  more 
aggressively  than  it  does  now.  —  The  old  Master  got 
rather  warm  in  talking;  perhaps  the  consciousness 
of  having  a  number  of  listeners  had  something  to  do 
with  it. 

—  This  whole  business  is  an  open  question,  — -  he 
said, — and  there  is  no  use  in  saying,  "Hush!  don't 
talk  about  such  things!"  People  do  talk  about  'em 
everywhere;  and  if  they  don't  talk  about  'em  they 
think  about  'em,  and  that  is  worse,  —  if  there  is  any- 
thing bad  about  such  questions,  that  is.  If  for  the 
Fall  of  man,  science  comes  to  substitute  the  RISE  of 
man,  sir,  it  means  the  utter  disintegration  of  all  the 
spiritual  pessimisms  which  have  been  like  a  spasm  in 
the  heart  and  a  cramp  in  the  intellect  of  men  for  so 
many  centuries.  And  yet  who  dares  to  say  that  it  is 
not  a  perfectly  legitimate  and  proper  question  to  be 
discussed,  without  the  slightest  regard  to  the  fears  or 
the  threats  of  Pope  or  prelate  ? 

Sir,  I  believe,  —  the  Master  rose  from  his  chair  as 
he  spoke,  and  said  in  a  deep  and  solemn  tone,  but 
without  any  declamatory  vehemence,  —  sir,  I  believe 
that  we  are  at  this  moment  in  what  will  be  recognized 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BKEAKFAST-TABLE.    183 

not  many  centuries  hence  as  one  of  the  late  watches  in 
the  night  of  the  dark  ages.  There  is  a  twilight  ray, 
beyond  question.  "We  know  something  of  the  uni- 
verse, a  very  little,  and,  strangely  enough,  we  know 
most  of  what  is  farthest  from  us.  We  have  weighed 
the  planets  and  analyzed  the  flames  of  the  sun  and 
stars.  We  predict  their  movements  as  if  they  were 
machines  we  ourselves  had  made  and  regulated.  We 
know  a  good  deal  about  the  earth  on  which  we  live. 
But  the  study  of  man  has  been  so  completely  sub- 
jected to  our  preconceived  opinions,  that  we  have  got 
to  begin  all  over  again.  We  have  studied  anthropol- 
ogy through  theology;  we  have  now  to  begin  the 
study  of  theology  through  anthropology.  Until  we 
have  exhausted  the  human  element  in  every  form  of 
belief,  and  that  can  only  be  done  by  what  we  may  call 
comparative  spiritual  anatomy,  we  cannot  begin  to 
deal  with  the  alleged  extra-human  elements  without 
blundering  into  all  imaginable  puerilities.  If  you 
think  for  one  moment  that  there  is  not  a  single  reli- 
gion in  the  world  which  does  not  come  to  us  through 
the  medium  of  a  preexisting  language ;  and  if  you  re- 
member that  this  language  embodies  absolutely  noth- 
ing but  human  conceptions  and  human  passions,  you 
will  see  at  once  that  every  religion  presupposes  its  own 
elements  as  already  existing  in  those  to  whom  it  is 
addressed.  I  once  went  to  a  church  in  London  and 
heard  the  famous  Edward  Irving  preach,  and  heard 
some  of  his  congregation  speak  in  the  strange  words 
characteristic  of  their  miraculous  gift  of  tongues.  I 
had  a  respect  for  the  logical  basis  of  this  singular 
phenomenon.  I  have  always  thought  it  was  natural 
that  any  celestial  message  should  demand  a  language 
of  its  own,  only  to  be  understood  by  divine  illumina- 


184    THE  POET  AT  THE  BEE AKFAST-T ABLE. 

tion.  All  human  words  tend,  of  course,  to  stop  short 
in  human  meaning.  And  the  more  I  hear  the  most 
sacred  terms  employed,  the  more  I  am  satisfied  that 
they  have  entirely  and  radically  different  meanings  in 
the  minds  of  those  who  use  them.  Yet  they  deal  with 
them  as  if  they  were  as  definite  as  mathematical  quan- 
tities or  geometrical  figures.  What  would  become  of 
arithmetic  if  the  figure  2  meant  three  for  one  man  and 
five  for  another  and  twenty  for  a  third,  and  all  the 
other  numerals  were  in  the  same  way  variable  quan- 
tities? Mighty  intelligent  correspondence  business 
men  would  have  with  each  other!  But  how  is  this 
any  worse  than  the  difference  of  opinion  which  led  a 
famous  clergyman  to  say  to  a  brother  theologian, 
"Oh,  I  see,  my  dear  sir,  your  God  is  my  Devil." 

Man  has  been  studied  proudly,  contemptuously, 
rather,  from  the  point  of  view  supposed  to  be  author- 
itatively settled.  The  self-sufficiency  of  egotistic  na- 
tures was  never  more  fully  shown  than  in  the  exposi- 
tions of  the  worthlessness  and  wretchedness  of  their 
fellow-creatures  given  by  the  dogmatists  who  have 
"gone  back,"  as  the  vulgar  phrase  is,  on  their  race, 
their  own  flesh  and  blood.  Did  you  ever  read  what 
Mr.  Bancroft  says  about  Calvin  in  his  article  on  Jon- 
athan Edwards?  —  and  mighty  well  said  it  is  too,  in 
my  judgment.  Let  me  remind  you  of  it,  whether 
you  have  read  it  or  not.  "Setting  himself  up  over 
against  the  privileged  classes,  he,  with  a  loftier  pride 
than  theirs,  revealed  the  power  of  a  yet  higher  order 
of  nobility,  not  of  a  registered  ancestry  of  fifteen  gen* 
erations,  but  one  absolutely  spotless  in  its  escutcheon, 
preordained  in  the  council  chamber  of  eternity."  I 
think  you  '11  find  I  have  got  that  sentence  right,  word 
for  word,  and  there  's  a  great  deal  more  in  it  than 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.    185 

many  good  folks  who  call  themselves  after  the  re- 
former seem  to  be  aware  of.  The  Pope  put  his  foot 
on  the  neck  of  kings,  but  Calvin  and  his  cohort 
crushed  the  whole  human  race  under  their  heels  in 
the  name  of  the  Lord  of  Hosts.  Now,  you  see,  the 
^point  that  people  don't  understand  is  the  absolute  and 
utter  humility  of  science,  in  opposition  to  this  doc- 
trinal self-sufficiency.  I  don't  doubt  this  may  sound 
a  little  paradoxical  at  first,  but  I  think  you  will  find 
it  is  all  right.  You  remember  the  courtier  and  the 
monarch,  —  Louis  the  Fourteenth,  was  n't  it  ?  —  never 
mind,  give  the  poor  fellows  that  live  by  setting  you 
right  a  chance.  "What  o'clock  is  it?"  says  the 
king.  "Just  whatever  o'clock  your  Majesty  pleases," 
says  the  courtier.  I  venture  to  say  the  monarch  was 
a  great  deal  more  humble  than  the  follower,  who 
pretended  that  his  master  was  superior  to  such  trifling 
facts  as  the  revolution  of  the  planet.  It  was  the  same 
thing,  you  remember,  with  King  Canute  and  the  tide 
on  the  sea-shore.  The  king  accepted  the  scientific 
fact  of  the  tide's  rising.  The  loyal  hangers-on,  who 
believed  in  divine  right,  were  too  proud  of  the  com- 
pany they  found  themselves  in  to  make  any  such  hu- 
miliating admission.  But  there  are  people,  and  plenty 
of  them,  to-day,  who  will  dispute  facts  just  as  clear 
to  those  who  have  taken  the  pains  to  learn  what  is 
known  about  them,  as  that  of  the  tide's  rising.  They 
don't  like  to  admit  these  facts,  because  they  throw 
doubt  upon  some  of  their  cherished  opinions.  We 
are  getting  on  towards  the  last  part  of  this  nineteenth 
century.  What  we  have  gained  is  not  so  much  in 
positive  knowledge,  though  that  is  a  good  deal,  as  it 
is  in  the  freedom  of  discussion  of  every  subject  that 
comes  within  the  range  of  observation  and  inference. 


186    THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

How  long  is  it  since  Mrs.  Piozzi  wrote,  —  "Let  me 
hope  that  you  will  not  pursue  geology  till  it  leads  you 
into  doubts  destructive  of  all  comfort  in  this  world 
and  all  happiness  in  the  next"? 

The  Master  paused  and  I  remained  silent,  for  I 
Was  thinking  things  I  could  not  say. 

—  It  is  well  always  to  have  a  woman  near  by  when 
one  is  talking  on  this  class  of  subjects.  Whether 
there  will  be  three  or  four  women  to  one  man  in 
heaven  is  a  question  which  I  must  leave  to  those  who 
talk  as  if  they  knew  all  about  the  future  condition  of 
the  race  to  answer.  But  very  certainly  there  is  much 
more  of  hearty  faith,  much  more  of  spiritual  life, 
among  women  than  among  men,  in  this  world.  They 
need  faith  to  support  them  more  than  men  do,  for 
they  have  a  great  deal  less  to  call  them  out  of  them- 
selves, and  it  comes  easier  to  them,  for  their  habitual 
state  of  dependence  teaches  them  to  trust  in  others. 
When  they  become  voters,  if  they  ever  do,  it  may  be 
feared  that  the  pews  will  lose  what  the  ward-rooms 
gain.  Relax  a  woman's  hold  on  man,  and  her  knee- 
joints  will  soon  begin  to  stiffen.  Self-assertion  brings 
out  many  fine  qualities,  but  it  does  not  promote  devo- 
tional habits. 

I  remember  some  such  thoughts  as  this  were  passing 
through  my  mind  while  the  Master  was  talking.  I 
noticed  that  the  -Lady  was  listening  to  the  conver- 
sation with  a  look  of  more  than  usual  interest.  We 
3nen  have  the  talk  mostly  to  ourselves  at  this  table; 
the  Master,  as  you  have  found  out,  is  fond  of  mono- 
logues, and  I  myself  —  well,  I  suppose  I  must  own  to 
a  certain  love  for  the  reverberated  music  of  my  own 
accents ;  at  any  rate,  the  Master  and  I  do  most  of  the 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.    187 


talking.  But  others  help  us  do  the  listening.  I 
I  can  show  that  they  listen  to  some  purpose.  I  am 
going  to  surprise  my  reader  with  a  letter  which  I  re- 
ceived very  shortly  after  the  conversation  took  place 
which  I  have  just  reported.  It  is  of  course  by  a 
special  license,  such  as  belongs  to  the  supreme  prerog- 
ative of  an  author,  that  I  am  enabled  to  present  it  to 
him.  He  need  ask  no  questions  :  it  is  not  his  affair 
how  I  obtained  the  right  to  give  publicity  to  a  private 
communication.  I  have  become  somewhat  more  inti- 
mately acquainted  with  the  writer  of  it  than  in  the 
earlier  period  of  my  connection  with  this  establish- 
ment, and  I  think  I  may  say  have  gained  her  confi- 
dence to  a  very  considerable  degree. 

MY  DEAR  SIR  :  The  conversations  I  have  had  with 
you,  limited  as  they  have  been,  have  convinced  me 
that  I  am  quite  safe  in  addressing  you  with  freedom 
on  a  subject  which  interests  me,  and  others  more  than 
myself.  We  at  our  end  of  the  table  have  been  listen- 
ing,. more  or  less  intelligently,  to  the  discussions  going 
on  between  two  or  three  of  you  gentlemen  on  matters 
of  solemn  import  to  us  all.  This  is  nothing  very  new 
to  me.  I  have  been  used,  from  an  early  period  of 
my  life,  to  hear  the  discussion  of  grave  questions, 
both  in  politics  and  religion.  I  have  seen  gentlemen 
at  my  father's  table  get  as  warm  over  a  theological 
point  of  dispute  as  in  talking  over  their  political  dif- 
ferences. I  rather  think  it  has  always  been  very  much 
so,  in  bad  as  well  as  in  good  company;  for  you  re- 
member how  Milton's  fallen  angels  amused  themselves 
with  disputing  on  "providence,  foreknowledge,  will, 
and  fate,"  and  it  was  the  same  thing  in  that  club 
Goldsmith  writes  so  pleasantly  about.  Indeed,  why 


188    THE  POET  AT  THE  BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 

should  not  people  very  often  come,  in  the  course  of 
conversation,  to  the  one  subject  which  lies  beneath 
all  else  about  which  our  thoughts  are  occupied?  And 
what  more  natural  than  that  one  should  be  inquiring 
about  what  another  has  accepted  and  ceased  to  have 
any  doubts  concerning  ?  It  seems  to  me  all  right  that 
at  the  proper  time,  in  the  proper  place>  those  who  are 
less  easily  convinced  than  their  neighbors  should  have 
the  fullest  liberty  of  calling  to  account  all  the  opinions 
which  others  receive  without  question.  Somebody 
must  stand  sentry  at  the  outposts  of  belief,  and  it  is 
a  sentry's  business,  I  believe,  to  challenge  every  one 
who  comes  near  him,  friend  or  foe. 

I  want  you  to  understand  fully  that  I  am  not  one 
of  those  poor  nervous  creatures  who  are  frightened  out 
of  their  wits  when  any  question  is  started  that  implies 
the  disturbance  of  their  old  beliefs.  I  manage  to  see 
some  of  the  periodicals,  and  now  and  then  dip  a  little 
way  into  a  new  book  which  deals  with  these  curious 
questions  you  were  talking  about,  and  others  like  them. 
You  know  they  find  their  way  almost  everywhere. 
They  do  not  worry  me  in  the  least.  When  I  was  a 
little  girl,  they  used  to  say  that  if  you  put  a  horsehair 
into  a  tub  of  water  it  would  turn  into  a  snake  in  the 
course  of  a  few  days.  That  did  not  seem  to  me  so 
very  much  stranger  than  it  was  that  an  egg  should 
turn  into  a  chicken.  What  can  I  say  to  that  ?  Only 
that  it  is  the  Lord's  doings,  and  marvellous  in  my 
eyes ;  and  if  our  philosophical  friend  should  find  some 
little  live  creatures,  or  what  seem  to  be  live  creatures, 
in  any  of  his  messes,  I  should  say  as  much,  and  no 
more.  You  do  not  think  I  would  shut  up  my  Bible 
and  Prayer-Book  because  there  is  one  more  thing  I  do 
not  understand  in  a  world  where  I  understand  so  very 
little  of  all  the  wonders  that  surround  me  ? 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.    189 

It  may  be  very  wrong  to  pay  any  attention  to  those 
speculations  about  the  origin  of  mankind  which  seem 
to  conflict  with  the  Sacred  Record.  But  perhaps 
there  is  some  way  of  reconciling  them,  as  there  is  of 
making  the  seven  days  of  creation  harmonize  with 
modern  geology.  At  least,  these  speculations  are 
curious  enough  in  themselves;  and  I  have  seen  so 
many  good  and  handsome  children  come  of  parents 
who  were  anything  but  virtuous  and  comely,  that  I  can 
believe  in  almost  any  amount  of  improvement  taking 
place  in  a  tribe  of  living  beings,  if  time  and  oppor- 
tunity favor  it.  I  have  read  in  books  of  natural  his- 
tory that  dogs  came  originally  from  wolves.  When  I 
remember  my  little  Flora,  who,  as  I  used  to  think, 
could  do  everything  but  talk,  it  does  not  seem  to  me 
that  she  was  much  nearer  her  savage  ancestors  than 
some  of  the  horrid  cannibal  wretches  are  to  their 
neighbors  the  great  apes. 

You  see  that  I  am  tolerably  liberal  in  my  habit  of 
looking  at  all  these  questions.  We  women  drift 
along  with  the  current  of  the  times,  listening,  in  our 
quiet  way,  to  the  discussions  going  on  round  us  in 
books  and  in  conversation,  and  shift  the  phrases  in 
which  we  think  and  talk  with  something  of  the  same 
ease  as  that  with  which  we  change  our  style  of  dress 
from  year  to  year.  I  doubt  if  you  of  the  other  sex 
know  what  an  effect  this  habit  of  accommodating  our 
tastes  to  changing  standards  has  upon  us.  Nothing 
is  fixed  in  them,  as  you  know ;  the  very  law  of  fashion 
is  change.  I  suspect  we  learn  from  our  dressmakers 
to  shift  the  costume  of  our  minds,  and  slip  on  the 
new  fashions  of  thinking  all  the  more  easily  because 
we  have  been  accustomed  to  new  styles  of  dressing 
every  season. 


190    THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

It  frightens  me  to  see  how  much  I  have  written 
without  having  yet  said  a  word  of  what  I  began  this 
letter  on  purpose  to  say.  I  have  taken  so  much  space 
in  "denning  my  position,"  to  borrow  the  politicians' 
phrase,  that  I  begin  to  fear  you  will  be  out  of  pa- 
tience before  you  come  to  the  part  of  my  letter  I  care 
most  about  your  reading. 

What  I  want  to  say  is  this.  When  these  matters 
are  talked  about  before  persons  of  different  ages  and 
various  shades  of  intelligence,  I  think  one  ought  to  be 
very  careful  that  his  use  of  language  does  not  injure 
the  sensibilities,  perhaps  blunt  the  reverential  feel- 
ings, of  those  who  are  listening  to  him.  You  of  the 
sterner  sex  say  that  we  women  have  intuitions,  but 
not  logic,  as  our  birthright.  I  shall  not  commit  my 
sex  by  conceding  this  to  be  true  as  a  whole,  but  I  will 
accept  the  first  half  of  it,  and  I  will  go  so  far  as  to 
say  that  we  do  not  always  care  to  follow  out  a  train  of 
thought  until  it  ends  in  a  blind  cul  de  sac,  as  some  of 
what  are  called  the  logical  people  are  fond  of  doing. 

Now  I  want  to  remind  you  that  religion  is  not  a 
matter  of  intellectual  luxury  to  those  of  us  who  are 
interested  in  it,  but  something  very  different.  It  is 
our  life,  and  more  than  our  life ;  for  that  is  measured 
by  pulse-beats,  but  our  religious  consciousness  par- 
takes of  the  Infinite,  towards  which  it  is  constantly 
yearning.  It  is  very  possible  that  a  hundred  or  five 
hundred  years  from  now  the  forms  of  religious  belief 
may  be  so  altered  that  we  should  hardly  know  them. 
But  the  sense  of  dependence  on  Divine  influence  and 
the  need  of  communion  with  the  unseen  and  eternal 
will  be  then  just  what  they  are  now.  It  is  not  the 
geologist's  hammer,  or  the  astronomer's  telescope,  or 
the  naturalist's  microscope,  that  is  going  to  take  away 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.    191 

the  need  of  the  human  soul  for  that  Rock  to  rest  upon 
which  is  higher  than  itself,  that  Star  which  never  sets, 
that  all-pervading  Presence  which  gives  life  to  all  the 
least  moving  atoms  of  the  immeasurable  universe. 

I  have  no  fears  for  myself,  and  listen  very  quietly 
to  all  your  debates.  I  go  from  your  philosophical  dis- 
cussions to  the  reading  of  Jeremy  Taylor's  "Rule  and 
Exercises  of  Holy  Dying  "  without  feeling  that  I  have 
unfitted  myself  in  the  least  degree  for  its  solemn  re- 
flections. And,  as  I  have  mentioned  his  name,  I  can- 
not help  saying  that  I  do  not  believe  that  good  man 
himself  would  have  ever  shown  the  bitterness  to  those 
who  seem  to  be  at  variance  with  the  received  doc- 
trines which  one  may  see  in  some  of  the  newspapers 
that  call  themselves  "religious."  I  have  kept  a  few 
old  books  from  my  honored  father's  library,  and 
among  them  is  another  of  his  which  I  always  thought 
had  more  true  Christianity  in  its  title  than  there  is  in 
a  good  many  whole  volumes.  I  am  going  to  take  the 
book  down,  or  up,  —  for  it  is  not  a  little  one,  —  and 
write  out  the  title,  which,  I  dare  say,  you  remember, 
and  very  likely  you  have  the  book.  "Discourse  of 
the  Liberty  of  Prophesying,  showing  the  Unreason- 
ableness of  prescribing  to  other  Men's  Faith,  and  the 
Iniquity  of  persecuting  Different  Opinions." 

Now,  my  dear  sir,  I  am  sure  you  believe  that  I  want 
to  be  liberal  and  reasonable,  and  not  to  act  like  those 
weak  alarmists  who,  whenever  the  silly  sheep  begin 
to  skip  as  if  something  was  after  them,  and  huddle 
together  in  their  fright,  are  sure  there  must  be  a  bear 
or  a  lion  coming  to  eat  them  up.  But  for  all  that,  I 
want  to  beg  you  to  handle  some  of  these  points,  which 
are  so  involved  in  the  creed  of  a  good  many  well-in- 
tentioned persons  that  you  cannot  separate  them  from 


192    THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

it  without  picking  their  whole  belief  to  pieces,  with 
more  thought  for  them  than  you  might  think  at  first 
they  were  entitled  to.  I  have  no  doubt  you  gentlemen 
are  as  wise  as  serpents,  and  I  want  you  to  be  as  harm- 
less as  doves. 

The  Young  Girl  who  sits  by  me  has,  I  know,  strong 
religious  instincts.  Instead  of  setting  her  out  to  ask 
all  sorts  of  questions,  I  would  rather,  if  I  had  my  way, 
encourage  her  to  form  a  habit  of  attending  to  religious 
duties,  and  make  the  most  of  the  simple  faith  in  which 
she  was  bred.  I  think  there  are  a  good  many  ques- 
tions young  persons  may  safely  postpone  to  a  more 
convenient  season ;  and  as  this  young  creature  is  over- 
worked, I  hate  to  have  her  excited  by  the  fever  of 
doubt  which  it  cannot  be  denied  is  largely  prevailing 
in  our  time. 

I  know  you  must  have  looked  on  our  other  young 
friend,  who  has  devoted  himself  to  the  sublimest  of  the 
.sciences,  with  as  much  interest  as  I  do.  When  I  was 
a  little  girl  I  used  to  write  out  a  line  of  Young's  as  a 
copy  in  my  writing-book, 

"  An  undevout  astronomer  is  mad  "  ; 

but  I  do  not  now  feel  quite  so  sure  that  the  contem- 
plation of  all  the  multitude  of  remote  worlds  does  not 
tend  to  weaken  the  idea  of  a  personal  Deity.  It  is 
not  so  much  that  nebular  theory  which  worries  me, 
when  I  think  about  this  subject,  as  a  kind  of  bewil- 
derment when  I  try  to  conceive  of  a  consciousness  fill- 
ing all  those  frightful  blanks  of  space  they  talk  about. 
I  sometimes  doubt  whether  that  young  man  worships 
anything  but  the  stars.  They  tell  me  that  many 
young  students  of  science  like  him  never  see  the  inside 
of  a  church.  I  cannot  help  wishing  they  did.  It  hu- 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.    193 

manizes  people,  quite  apart  from  any  higher  influence 
it  exerts  upon  them.  One  reason,  perhaps,  why  they 
do  not  care  to  go  to  places  of  worship  is  that  they  are 
liable  to  hear  the  questions  they  know  something  about 
handled  in  sermons  by  those  who  know  very  much  less 
about  them.  And  so  they  lose  a  great  deal.  Almost 
every  human  being,  however  vague  his  notions  of  the 
Power  addressed,  is  capable  of  being  lifted  and  sol- 
emnized by  the  exercise  of  public  prayer.  When  I 
was  a  young  girl  we  travelled  in  Europe,  and  I  vis- 
ited Ferney  with  my  parents ;  and  I  remember  we  all 
stopped  before  a  chapel,  and  I  read  upon  its  front,  — 
I  knew  Latin  enough  to  understand  it,  I  am  pleased 
to  say,  —  Deo  erexit  Voltaire.  I  never  forgot  it ;  and 
knowing  what  a  sad  scoffer  he  was  at  most  sacred 
things,  I  could  not  but  be  impressed  with  the  fact  that 
even  he  was  not  satisfied  with  himself,  until  he  had 
shown  his  devotion  in  a  public  and  lasting  form. 

We  all  want  religion  sooner  or  later.  I  am  afraid 
there  are  some  who  have  no  natural  turn  for  it,  as 
there  are  persons  without  an  ear  for  music,  to  which, 
if  I  remember  right,  I  heard  one  of  you  comparing 
what  you  called  religious  genius.  But  sorrow  and 
misery  bring  even  these  to  know  what  it  means,  in  a 
great  many  instances.  May  I  not  say  to  you,  my 
friend,  that  I  am  one  who  has  learned  the  secret  of  the 
inner  life  by  the  discipline  of  trials  in  the  life  of  out- 
ward circumstance?  I  can  remember  the  time  when 
I  thought  more  about  the  shade  of  color  in  a  ribbon, 
whether  it  matched  my  complexion  or  not,  than  I  did 
about  my  spiritual  interests  in  this  world  or  the  next. 
It  was  needful  that  I  should  learn  the  meaning  of  that 
text,  "Whom  the  Lord  loveth  he  chasteneth." 

Since  I  have  been  taught  in  the  school  of  trial  I 


194    THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

have  felt,  as  I  never  could  before,  how  precious  an  in- 
heritance is  the  smallest  patrimony  of  faith.  When 
everything  seemed  gone  from  me,  I  found  I  had  still 
one  possession.  The  bruised  reed  that  I  had  never 
leaned  on  became  my  staff.  The  smoking  flax  which 
had  been  a  worry  to  my  eyes  burst  into  flame,  and  I 
lighted  the  taper  at  it  which  has  since  guided  all  my 
footsteps.  And  I  am  but  one  of  the  thousands  who 
have  had  the  same  experience.  They  have  been 
through  the  depths  of  affliction,  and  know  the  needs 
of  the  human  soul.  It  will  find  its  God  in  the  unseen, 
—  Father,  Saviour,  Divine  Spirit,  Virgin  Mother,  — 
it  must  and  will  breathe  its  longings  and  its  griefs 
into  the  heart  of  a  Being  capable  of  understanding  all 
its  necessities  and  sympathizing  with  all  its  woes. 

I  am  jealous,  yes,  I  own  I  am  jealous  of  any  word, 
spoken  or  written,  that  would  tend  to  impair  that 
birthright  of  reverence  which  becomes  for  so  many  in 
after  years  the  basis  of  a  deeper  religious  sentiment. 
And  yet,  as  I  have  said,  I  cannot  and  will  not  shut 
my  eyes  to  the  problems  which  may  seriously  affect 
our  modes  of  conceiving  the  eternal  truths  on  which, 
and  by  which,  our  souls  must  live.  What  a  fearful 
time  is  this  into  which  we  poor  sensitive  and  timid 
creatures  are  born !  I  suppose  the  life  of  every  cen- 
tury has  more  or  less  special  resemblance  to  that  of 
some  particular  Apostle.  I  cannot  help  thinking  this 
century  has  Thomas  for  its  model.  How  do  you  sup- 
pose the  other  Apostles  felt  when  that  experimental 
philosopher  explored  the  wounds  of  the  Being  who 
to  them  was  divine  with  his  inquisitive  forefinger? 
In  our  time  that  finger  has  multiplied  itself  into  ten 
thousand  thousand  implements  of  research,  challeng- 
ing all  mysteries,  weighing  the  world  as  in  a  balance, 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.     195 

and  sifting  through  its  prisms  and  spectroscopes  the 
light  that  comes  from  the  throne  of  the  Eternal. 

Pity  us,  dear  Lord,  pity  us !  The  peace  in  believ- 
ing which  belonged  to  other  ages  is  not  for  us. 
Again  Thy  wounds  are  opened  that  we  may  know 
whether  it  is  the  blood  of  one  like  ourselves  which 
flows  from  them,  or  whether  it  is  a  Divinity  that  is 
bleeding  for  His  creatures.  Wilt  Thou  not  take  the 
doubt  of  Thy  children  whom  the  time  commands  to  try 
all  things  in  the  place  of  the  unquestioning  faith  of 
earlier  and  simpler-hearted  generations?  We  too 
have  need  of  Thee.  Thy  martyrs  in  other  ages  were 
cast  into  the  flames,  but  no  fire  could  touch  their  im- 
mortal and  indestructible  faith.  We  sit  in  safety  and 
in  peace,  so  far  as  these  poor  bodies  are  concerned; 
but  our  cherished  beliefs,  the  hopes,  the  trust  that 
stayed  the  hearts  of  those  we  loved  who  have  gone 
before  us,  are  cast  into  the  fiery  furnace  of  an  age 
which  is  fast  turning  to  dross  the  certainties  and  the 
sanctities  once  prized  as  our  most  precious  inheri- 
tance. 

You  will  understand  me,  my  dear  sir,  and  all  my 
solicitudes  and  apprehensions.  Had  I  never  been  as- 
sailed by  the  questions  that  meet  all  thinking  persons 
in  our  time,  I  might  not  have  thought  so  anxiously 
about  the  risk  of  perplexing  others.  I  know  as  well 
as  you  must  that  there  are  many  articles  of  belief 
clinging  to  the  skirts  of  our  time  which  are  the  be- 
quests of  the  ages  of  ignorance  that  God  winked  at. 
But  for  all  that  I  would  train  a  child  in  the  nurture 
and  admonition  of  the  Lord,  according  to  the  sim- 
plest and  best  creed  I  could  disentangle  from  those 
barbarisms,  and  I  would  in  every  way  try  to  keep  up 
in  young  persons  that  standard  of  reverence  for  all 


196    THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

sacred  subjects  which  may,  without  any  violent  tran- 
sition, grow  and  ripen  into  the  devotion  of  later  years. 
Believe  me, 

Very  sincerely  yours, 


I  have  thought  a  good  deal  about  this  letter  and  the 
writer  of  it  lately.  She  seemed  at  first  removed  to 
a  distance  from  all  of  us,  but  here  I  find  myself  in 
somewhat  near  relations  with  her.  What  has  sur- 
prised me  more  than  that,  however,  is  to  find  that  she 
is  becoming  so  much  acquainted  with  the  Register  of 
Deeds.  Of  all  persons  in  the  world,  I  should  least 
have  thought  of  him  as  like  to  be  interested  in  her, 
and  still  less,  if  possible,  of  her  fancying  him.  I  can 
only  say  they  have  been  in  pretty  close  conversation 
several  times  of  late,  and,  if  I  dared  to  think  it  of  so 
very  calm  and  dignified  a  personage,  I  should  say 
that  her  color  was  a  little  heightened  after  one  or 
more  of  these  interviews.  No!  that  would  be  too 
absurd !  But  I  begin  to  think  nothing  is  absurd  in 
the  matter  of  the  relations  of  the  two  sexes;  and  if 
this  high-bred  woman  fancies  the  attentions  of  a  piece 
of  human  machinery  like  this  elderly  individual,  it 
is  none  of  my  business. 

I  have  been  at  work  on  some  more  of  the  Young 
Astronomer's  lines.  I  find  less  occasion  for  meddling 
with  them  as  he  grows  more  used  to  versification.  I 
think  I  could  analyze  the  processes  going  on  in  his 
mind,  and  the  conflict  of  instincts  which  he  cannot  in 
the  nature  of  things  understand.  But  it  is  as  well  to 
give  the  reader  a  chance  to  find  out  for  himself  what 
is  going  on  in  the  young  man's  heart  and  intellect. 


THE   POET   AT   THE   BREAKFAST-TABLE.          I9T 

WIND-CLOUDS  AND  STAR-DRIFTS, 
m. 

The  snows  that  glittered  on  the  disk  of  Mars 

Have  melted,  and  the  planet's  fiery  orb 

Rolls  in  the  crimson  summer  of  its  year  ; 

But  what  to  me  the  summer  or  the  snow 

Of  worlds  that  throb  with  life  in  forms  unknown, 

If  life  indeed  be  theirs  ;  I  heed  not  these. 

My  heart  is  simply  human  ;  all  my  care 

For  them  whose  dust  is  fashioned  like  mine  own  ; 

These  ache  with  cold  and  hunger,  live  in  pain, 

And  shake  with  fear  of  worlds  more  full  of  woe  ; 

There  may  be  others  worthier  of  my  love, 

But  such  I  know  not  save  through  these  1  know. 

There  are  two  veils  of  language,  hid  beneath 
Whose  sheltering  folds,  we  dare  to  be  ourselves  ; 
And  not  that  other  self  which  nods  and  smiles 
And  babbles  in  our  name  ;  the  one  is  Prayer, 
Lending  its  licensed  freedom  to  the  tongue 
That  tells  our  sorrows  and  our  sins  to  Heaven  ; 
The  other,  Verse,  that  throws  its  spangled  web 
Around  our  naked  speech  and  makes  it  bold. 
I,  whose  best  prayer  is  silence  ;  sitting  dumb 
In  the  great  temple  where  I  nightly  serve 
Him  who  is  throned  in  light,  have  dared  to  claim 
The  poet's  franchise,  though  I  may  not  hope 
To  wear  his  garland  ;  hear  me  while  I  tell 
My  story  in  such  form  as  poets  use, 
But  breathed  hi  fitful  whispers,  as  the  wind 
Sighs  and  then  slumbers,  wakes  and  sighs  again. 

Thou  Vision,  floating  in  the  breathless  air 
Between  me  and  the  fairest  of  the  stars, 
I  tell  my  lonely  thoughts  as  unto  thee. 
Look  not  for  marvels  of  the  scholar's  pen 
In  my  rude  measure  ;  I  can  only  show 
A  slender-margined,  unillumined  page, 
And  trust  its  meaning  to  the  flattering  eye 


198    THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

That  reads  it  in  the  gracious  light  of  love. 
Ah,  wouldst  thou  clothe  thyself  in  breathing  shape 
And  nestle  at  my  side,  my  voice  should  lend 
Whate'er  my  verse  may  lack  of  tender  rhythm 
To  make  thee  listen. 

I  have  stood  entranced 

When,  with  her  fingers  wandering  o'er  the  keys, 
The  white  enchantress  with  the  golden  hair 
Breathed  all  her  soul  through  some  unvalued  rhyme  ; 
Some  flower  of  song  that  long  had  lost  its  bloom  ; 
Lo  !  its  dead  summer  kindled  as  she  sang  ! 
The  sweet  contralto,  like  the  ringdove's  coo, 
Thrilled  it  with  brooding,  fond,  caressing  tones, 
And  the  pale  minstrel's  passion  lived  again, 
Tearful  and  trembling  as  a  dewy  rose 
The  wind  has  shaken  till  it  fills  the  air 
With  light  and  fragrance.     Such  the  wondrous  charm 
A  song  can  borrow  when  the  bosom  throbs 
That  lends  it  breath. 

So  from  the  poet's  lips 

His  verse  sounds  doubly  sweet,  for  none  like  him 
Feels  every  cadence  of  its  wave-like  flow  ; 
He  lives  the  passion  over,  while  he  reads, 
That  shook  him  as  he  sang  his  lofty  strain, 
And  pours  his  life  through  each  resounding  line, 
As  ocean,  when  the  stormy  winds  are  hushed, 
Still  rolls  and  thunders  through  his  billowy  caves. 

Let  me  retrace  the  record  of  the  years 
That  made  me  what  I  am.     A  man  most  wise, 
But  overworn  with  toil  and  bent  with  age, 
Sought  me  to  be  his  scholar,  —  me,  run  wild 
From  books  and  teachers,  —  kindled  in  my  soul 
The  love  of  knowledge  ;  led  me  to  his  tower, 
Showed  me  the  wonders  of  the  midnight  realm 
His  hollow  sceptre  ruled,  or  seemed  to  rule, 
Taught  me  the  mighty  secrets  of  the  spheres, 
Trained  me  to  find  the  glimmering  specks  of  light 
Beyond  the  unaided  sense,  and  on  my  chart 
To  string  them  one  by  one,  in  order  due, 
As  on  a  rosary  a  saint  his  beads. 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.     199 

I  was  his  only. scholar  ;  I  became 

The  echo  to  his  thought ;  whate'er  he  knew 

Was  mine  for  asking  ;  so  from  year  to  year 

We  wrought  together,  till  there  came  a  time 

When  I,  the  learner,  was  the  master  half 

Of  the  twinned  being  in  the  dome-crowned  tower. 

Minds  roll  in  paths  like  planets  ;  they  revolve 
This  in  a  larger,  that  a  narrower  ring, 
But  round  they  come  at  last  to  that  same  phase, 
That  self-same  light  and  shade  they  showed  before. 
I  learned  his  annual  and  his  monthly  tale, 
His  weekly  axiom  and  his  daily  phrase, 
I  felt  them  coming  in  the  laden  air, 
And  watched  them  laboring  up  to  vocal  breath, 
Even  as  the  first-born  at  his  father's  board 
Knows  ere  he  speaks  the  too  familiar  jest 
Is  on  its  way,  by  some  mysterious  sign 
Forewarned,  the  click  before  the  striking  bell. 

He  shrivelled  as  I  spread  my  growing  leaves, 
Till  trust  and  reverence  changed  to  pitying  care  ; 
He  lived  for  me  in  what  he  once  had  been, 
But  I  for  him,  a  shadow,  a  defence, 
The  guardian  of  his  fame,  his  guide,  his  staff, 
Leaned  on  so  long  he  fell  if  left  alone. 
I  was  his  eye,  his  ear,  his  cunning  hand, 
Love  was  my  spur  and  longing  after  fame, 
But  his  the  goading  thorn  of  sleepless  age 
That  sees  its  shortening  span,  its  lengthening  shades. 
That  clutches  what  it  may  with  eager  grasp, 
And  drops  at  last  with  empty,  outstretched  hands. 

All  this  he  dreamed  not.     He  would  sit  him  down 
Thinking  to  work  his  problems  as  of  old, 
And  find  the  star  he  thought  so  plain  a  blur, 
The  columned  figures  labyrinthine  wilds 
Without  my  comment,  blind  and  senseless  scrawls 
That  vexed  him  with  their  riddles  ;  he  would  strive 
And  struggle  for  a  while,  and  then  his  eye 
Would  lose  its  light,  and  over  all  his  mind 


200    THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE, 

The  cold  gray  mist  would  settle  ;  and  erelong 
The  darkness  fell,  and  I  was  left  alone. 

Alone  !  no  climber  of  an  Alpine  cliff, 
No  Arctic  venturer  on  the  waveless  sea, 
Feels  the  dread  stillness  round  him  as  it  chills 
The  heart  of  him  who  leaves  the  slumbering  earth 
To  watch  the  silent  worlds  that  crowd  the  sky. 

Alone  !     And  as  the  shepherd  leaves  his  flock 
To  feed  upon  the  hillside,  he  meanwhile 
Finds  converse  in  the  warblings  of  the  pipe 
Himself  has  fashioned  for  his  vacant  hour, 
So  have  I  grown  companion  to  myself, 
And  to  the  wandering  spirits  of  the  air 
That  smile  and  whisper  round  us  in  our  dreams. 
Thus  have  I  learned  to  search  if  I  may  know 
The  whence  and  why  of  all  beneath  the  stars 
And  all  beyond  them,  and  to  weigh  my  life 
As  in  a  balance,  —  poising  good  and  ill 
Against  each  other,  —  asking  of  the  Power 
That  flung  me  forth  among  the  whirling  worlds, 
If  I  am  heir  to  any  inborn  right, 
Or  only  as  an  atom  of  the  dust 
That  every  wind  may  blow  where'er  it  will. 

I  am  not  humble  ;  I  was  shown  my  place, 
Clad  in  such  robes  as  Nature  had  at  hand ; 
Took  what  she  gave,  not  chose  ;  I  know  no  shame, 
No  fear  for  being  simply  what  I  am. 
I  am  not  proud,  I  hold  my  every  breath 
At  Nature's  mercy.     I  am  as  a  babe 
Borne  in  a  giant's  arms,  he  knows  not  where  ; 
Each  several  heart-beat,  counted  like  the  coin 
A  miser  reckons,  is  a  special  gift 
As  from  an  unseen  hand  ;  if  that  withhold 
Its  bounty  for  a  moment,  I  am  left 
A  clod  upon  the  earth  to  which  I  fall. 

Something  I  find  in  me  that  well  might  claim 
The  love  of  beings  in  a  sphere  above 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.    201 

This  doubtful  twilight  world  of  right  and  wrong  ; 

Something  that  shows  me  of  the  self-same  clay 

That  creeps  or  swims  or  flies  in  humblest  form. 

Had  I  been  asked,  before  I  left  my  bed 

Of  shapeless  dust,  what  clothing  I  would  wear, 

I  would  have  said,  More  angel  and  less  worm  ; 

But  for  their  sake  who  are  even  such  as  I, 

Of  the  same  mingled  blood,  I  would  not  choose 

To  hate  that  meaner  portion  of  myself 

Which  makes  me  brother  to  the  least  of  men. 

I  dare  not  be  a  coward  with  my  lips 

Who  dare  to  question  all  things  in  my  soul  ; 

Some  men  may  find  their  wisdom  on  their  knees, 

Some  prone  and  grovelling  in  the  dust  like  slaves  ; 

Let  the  meek  glow-worm  glisten  in  the  dew  ; 

I  ask  to  lift  my  taper  to  the  sky 

As  they  who  hold  their  lamps  above  their  heads, 

Trusting  the  larger  currents  up  aloft, 

Rather  than  crossing  eddies  round  their  breast, 

Threatening  with  every  puff  the  flickering  blaze. 

My  life  shall  be  a  challenge,  not  a  truce  ! 

This  is  my  homage  to  the  mightier  powers, 

To  ask  my  boldest  question,  undismayed 

By  muttered  threats  that  some  hysteric  sense 

Of  wrong  or  insult  will  convulse  the  throne 

Where  wisdom  reigns  supreme  ;  and  if  I  err, 

They  all  must  err  who  have  to  feel  their  way 

As  bats  that  fly  at  noon  ;  for  what  are  we 

But  creatures  of  the  night,  dragged  forth  by  day, 

Who  needs  must  stumble,  and  with  stammering  steps 

Spell  out  their  paths  in  syllables  of  pain  ? 

Thou  wilt  not  hold  in  scorn  the  child  who  dares 
Look  up  to  Thee,  the  Father,  — dares  to  ask 
More  than  Thy  wisdom  answers.     From  Thy  hand 
The  worlds  were  cast  ;  yet  every  leaflet  claims 
From  that  same  hand  its  little  shining  sphere 
Of  star-lit  dew  ;  thine  image,  the  great  sun, 
Girt  with  his  mantle  of  tempestuous  flame, 


202    THE  POET  AT  THE  BKEAKFAST-TABLE. 

Glares  in  mid-heaven  ;  but  to  his  noontide  blaze 
The  slender  violet  lifts  its  lidless  eye, 
And  from  his  splendor  steals  its  fairest  hue, 
Its  sweetest  perfume  from  his  scorching  fire. 

I  may  just  as  well  stop  here  as  anywhere,  for  there 
is  more  of  the  manuscript  to  come,  and  I  can  only 
give  it  in  instalments. 

The  Young  Astronomer  had  told  me  I  might  read 
any  portions  of  his  manuscript  I  saw  fit  to  certain 
friends.  I  tried  this  last  extract  on  the  old  Master. 

It 's  the  same  story  we  all  have  to  tell,  —  said  he, 
when  I  had  done  reading.  —  We  are  all  asking  ques« 
tions  nowadays.  I  should  like  to  hear  him  read  some 
of  his  verses  himself,  and  I  think  some  of  the  other 
boarders  would  like  to.  I  wonder  if  he  would  n't. do 
it,  if  we  asked  him !  Poets  read  their  own  composi- 
tions in  a  singsong  sort  of  way ;  but  they  do  seem  to 
love  'em  so,  that  I  always  enjoy  it.  It  makes  me 
laugh  a  little  inwardly  to  see  how  they  dandle  their 
poetical  babies,  but  I  don't  let  them  know  it.  We 
must  get  up  a  select  party  of  the  boarders  to  hear  him 
read.  We  '11  send  him  a  regular  invitation.  I  will 
put  my  name  at  the  head  of  it,  and  you  shall  write  it. 

—  That  was  neatly  done.  How  I  hate  writing  such 
things  !  But  I  suppose  I  must  do  it. 


VIII. 

The  Master  and  I  had  been  thinking  for  some  time 
of  trying  to  get  the  Young  Astronomer  round  to  our 
side  of  the  table.  There  are  many  subjects  on  which 
both  of  us  like  to  talk  with  him,  and  it  would  be  con- 
venient to  have  him  nearer  to  us.  How  to  manage  it 
was  not  quite  so  clear  as  it  might  have  been.  The 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.     203 

Scarabee  wanted  to  sit  with  his  back  to  the  light,  as 
it  was  in  his  present  position.  He  used  his  eyes  so 
much  in  studying  minute  objects,  that  he  wished  to 
spare  them  all  fatigue,  and  did  not  like  facing  a  win- 
dow. Neither  of  us  cared  to  ask  the  Man  of  Letters, 
so  called,  to  change  his  place,  and  of  course  we  could 
not  think  of  making  such  a  request  of  the  Young  Girl 
or  the  Lady.  So  we  were  at  a  stand  with  reference 
to. this  project  of  ours. 

But  while  we  were  proposing,  Fate  or  Providence 
disposed  everything  for  us.  The  Man  of  Letters, 
so  called,  was  missing  one  morning,  having  folded 
his  tent  —  that  is,  packed  his  carpet-bag  —  with  the 
silence  of  the  Arabs,  and  encamped  —  that  is,  taken 
lodgings  —  in  some  locality  which  he  had  forgotten  to 
indicate. 

The  Landlady  bore  this  sudden  bereavement  re- 
markably well.  Her  remarks  and  reflections,  though 
borrowing  the  aid  of  homely  imagery  and  doing  occa- 
sional violence  to  the  nicer  usages  of  speech,  were  not 
without  philosophical  discrimination. 

—  I  like  a  gentleman  that  is  a  gentleman.  But 
there  's  a  difference  in  what  folks  call  gentlemen  as 
there  is  in  what  you  put  on  table.  There  is  cabbages 
and  there  is  cauliflowers.  There  is  clams  and  there 
is  oysters.  There  is  mackerel  and  there  is  salmon. 
And  there  is  some  that  knows  the  difference  and 
some  that  doos  n't.  I  had  a  little  account  with  that 
boarder  that  he  forgot  to  settle  before  he  went  off,  so 
all  of  a  suddin.  I  sha'n't  say  anything  about  it. 
I  've  seen  the  time  when  I  should  have  felt  bad  about 
losing  what  he  owed  me,  but  it  was  no  great  matter ; 
and  if  he  '11  only  stay  away  now  he  's  gone,  I  can 
stand  losing  it,  and  not  cry  my  eyes  out  nor  lay  awake 


204    THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

all  night  neither.  I  never  had  ought  to  have  took 
him.  Where  he  come  from  and  where  he  's  gone  to 
is  unbeknown  to  me.  If  he  'd  only  smoked  good  to- 
bacco, I  wouldn't  have  said  a  word;  but  it  was  such 
dreadful  stuff,  it  '11  take  a  week  to  get  his  chamber 
sweet  enough  to  show  them  that  asks  for  rooms.  It 
doos  smell  like  all  possest. 

—  Left  any  goods?  —  asked  the  Salesman. 

—  Or  dockermunts?  —  added  the  Member  of  the 
Haouse. 

The  Landlady  answered  with  a  faded  smile,  which 
implied  that  there  was  no  hope  in  that  direction.  Dr. 
Benjamin,  with  a  sudden  recurrence  of  youthful  feel- 
ing, made  a  fan  with  the  fingers  of  his  right  hand,  the 
second  phalanx  of  the  thumb  resting  on  the  tip  of  the 
nose,  and  the  remaining  digits  diverging  from  each 
other,  in  the  plane  of  the  median  line  of  the  face,  —  I 
suppose  this  is  the  way  he  would  have  described  the 
gesture,  which  is  almost  a  specialty  of  the  Parisian 
gamin.  That  Boy  immediately  copied  it,  and  added 
greatly  to  its  effect  by  extending  the  fingers  of  the 
other  hand  in  a  line  with  those  of  the  first,  and  vigo- 
rously agitating  those  of  the  two  hands,  —  a  gesture 
which  acts  like  a  puncture  on  the  distended  self- 
esteem  of  one  to  whom  it  is  addressed,  and  cheapens 
the  memory  of  the  absent  to  a  very  low  figure. 

I  wish  the  reader  to  observe  that  I  treasure  up  with 
interest  all  the  words  uttered  by  the  Salesman.  It 
must  have  been  noticed  that  he  very  rarely  speaks. 
Perhaps  he  has  an  inner  life,  with  its  own  deep  emo- 
tional, and  lofty  contemplative  elements,  but  as  we 
see  him,  he  is  the  boarder  reduced  to  the  simplest 
expression  of  that  term.  Yet,  like  most  human  crea- 
tures, he  has  generic  and  specific  characters  not  un- 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.     205 

worthy  of  being  studied.  I  notice  particularly  a 
certain  electrical  briskness  of  movement,  such  as  one 
may  see  in  a  squirrel,  which  clearly  belongs  to  his 
calling.  The  dry-goodsman's  life 'behind  his  counter 
is  a  succession  of  sudden,  snappy  perceptions  and 
brief  series  of  coordinate  spasms,  as  thus :  — 
"Purple  calico,  three  quarters  wide,  six  yards." 
Up  goes  the  arm ;  bang !  tumbles  out  the  flat  roll 
and  turns  half  a  dozen  somersets,  as  if  for  the  fun  of 
the  thing;  the  six  yards  of  calico  hurry  over  the  mea- 
suring nails,  hunching  their  backs  up,  like  six  canker, 
worms;  out  jump  the  scissors;  snip,  clip,  rip;  the 
stuff  is  wisped  up,  brown  -  papered,  tied,  labelled, 
delivered,  and  the  man  is  himself  again,  like  a  child 
just  come  out  of  a  convulsion -fit.  Think  of  a  man's 
having  some  hundreds  of  these  semi-epileptic  seizures 
every  day,  and  you  need  not  wonder  that  he  does  not 
say  much;  these  fits  take  the  talk  all  out  of  him. 

But  because  he,  or  any  other  man,  does  not  say 
much,  it  does  not  follow  that  he  may  not  have,  as  I 
have  said,  an  exalted  and  intense  inner  life.  I  have 
known  a  number  of  cases  where  a  man  who  seemed 
thoroughly  commonplace  and  unemotional  has  all  at 
once  surprised  everybody  by  telling  the  story  of  his 
hidden  life  far  more  pointedly  and  dramatically  than 
any  playwright  or  novelist  or  poet  could  have  told  it 
for  him.  I  will  not  insult  your  intelligence,  Beloved, 
by  saying  how  he  has  told  it. 

—  We  had  been  talking  over  the  subjects  touched 
upon  in  the  Lady's  letter. 

—  I  suppose  one  man  in  a  dozen  —  said  the  Master 
—  ought  to  be  born  a  skeptic.     That  was  the  propor- 
tion among  the  Apostles,  at  any  rate. 

—  So  there  was  one  Judas  among  them,  —  I  re- 
marked. 


206    THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

—  Well,  —  said  the  Master,  —  they  '  ve  been  white- 
washing Judas  of  late.     But  never  mind  him.     I  did 
not  say  there  was  not  one  rogue  on  the  average  among 
a  dozen  men.     I  don't  see  how  that  would  interfere 
with  my  proposition.     If  I  say  that  among  a  dozen 
men  you  ought  to  find  one  that  weighs  over  a  hundred 
and  fifty  pounds,   and  you  tell  me  that  there  were 
twelve  men  in  your  club,  and  one  of  'em  had  red  hair, 
I  don't  see  that  you  have  materially  damaged  my 
statement. 

—  I  thought  it  best  to  let  the  old  Master  have  his 
easy  victory,   which  was  more   apparent  than   real, 
very  evidently,  and  he  went  on. 

—  When  the  Lord  sends  out  a  batch  of  human 
beings,   say  a  hundred —     Did  you   ever   read  my 
book,  the  new  edition  of  it,  I  mean? 

It  is  rather  awkward  to  answer  such  a  question  in 
the  negative,  but  I  said,  with  the  best  grace  I  could, 
"No,  not  the  last  edition." 

—  Well,  I  must  give  you  a  copy  of  it.     My  book 
and  I  are  pretty  much  the  same  thing.     Sometimes  I 
steal  from  my  book  in  my  talk  without  mentioning  it, 
and  then  I  say  to  myself,  "Oh,  that  won't  do;  every- 
body has  read  my  book  and  knows  it  by  heart."     And 
then  the  other  /  says,  —  you  know  there  are  two  of  us, 
right  and  left,  like  a  pair  of  shoes,  —  the  other  /  says, 
"You  're  a  —  something  or  other  —  fool.     They  have 
n't  read  your  confounded  old  book;  besides,  if  they 
have,  they  have  forgotten   all  about   it."      Another 
time,  I  say,  thinking  I  will  be  very  honest,  "I  have 
said  something  about  that  in  my  book";   and  then 
the  other  /  says,  "What  a  Balaam's  quadruped  you 
are  to  tell  'em   it's   in  your  book;  they  don't  care 
whether  it  is  or  not,  if  it 's  anything  worth  saying; 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.     207 

and  if  it  isn't  worth  saying,  what  are  you  braying 
for? "  That  is  a  rather  sensible  fellow,  that  other 
chap  we  talk  with,  but  an  impudent  whelp.  I  never 
got  such  abuse  from  any  blackguard  in  my  life  as  I 
have  from  that  No.  2  of  me,  the  one  that  answers  the 
other's  questions  and  makes  the  comments,  and  does 
what  in  demotic  phrase  is  called  the  "sarsing." 

—  I  laughed  at  that.     I  have  just  such  a  fellow 
always  with  me,  as  wise  as  Solomon,  if  I  would  only 
heed  him;  but  as  insolent  as  Shimei,   cursing,   and 
throwing  stones  and  dirt,  and  behaving  as  if  he  had 
the  traditions  of  the   "ape-like  human  being"  born 
with  him  rather  than  civilized  instincts.     One  does 
not  have  to  be  a  king  to  know  what  it  is  to  keep  a 
king's  jester. 

—  I  mentioned  my  book,  —  the  Master   said,  — 
because  I  have  something  in  it  on  the  subject  we  were 
talking  about.     I  should  like  to  read  you  a  passage 
here  and  there  out  of  it,  where  I  have  expressed  my- 
self a  little  more  freely  on  some  of  those  matters  we 
handle  in  conversation.     If  you  don't  quarrel  with  it, 
I  must  give  you  a  copy  of  the  book.     It 's  a  rather 
serious  thing  to  get  a  copy  of  a  book  from  the  writer 
of  it.     It  has  made  my  adjectives  sweat  pretty  hard,  I 
know,  to  put  together  an  answer  returning  thanks  and 
not  lying  beyond  the  twilight  of  veracity,  if  one  may 
use  a  figure.     Let  me  try  a  little  of  my  book  on  you, 
in  divided  doses,  as  my  friends  the  doctors  say. 

—  Fiat  experimentum    in  corpore   vili,  —  I    said, 
laughing   at  my  own   expense.     I   don't   doubt   the 
medicament  is  quite  as  good  as  the  patient  deserves, 
and  probably  a  great  deal  better,  —  I  added,  reinfor- 
cing my  feeble  compliment. 

[When  you  pay  a  compliment  to  an  author,  don't 


208    THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

qualify  it  in  the  next  sentence  so  as  to  take  all  the 
goodness  out  of  it.  Now  I  am  thinking  of  it,  I  will 
give  you  one  or  two  pieces  of  advice.  Be  careful  to 
assure  yourself  that  the  person  you  are  talking  with 
wrote  the  article  or  book  you  praise.  It  is  not  very 
pleasant  to  be  told,  "Well,  there,  now!  I  always 
liked  your  writings,  but  you  never  did  anything  half 
so  good  as  this  last  piece,"  and  then  to  have  to  tell  the 
blunderer  that  this  last  piece  isn't  yours,  but  t'  other 
man's.  Take  care  that  the  phrase  or  sentence  you 
commend  is  not  one  that  is  in  quotation-marks.  "  The 
best  thing  in  your  piece,  I  think,  is  a  line  I  do  not 
remember  meeting  before ;  it  struck  me  as  very  true 
and  well  expressed :  — 

'  An  honest  man 's  the  noblest  work  of  God.' " 

"But,  my  dear  lady,  that  line  is  one  which  is  to  be 
found  in  a  writer  of  the  last  century,  and  not  original 
with  me."  One  ought  not  to  have  undeceived  her, 
perhaps,  but  one  is  naturally  honest,  and  cannot  bear 
to  be  credited  with  what  is  not  his  own.  The  lady 
blushes,  of  course,  and  says  she  has  not  read  much 
ancient  literature,  or  some  such  thing.  The  pearl 
upon  the  Ethiop's  arm  is  very  pretty  in  verse,  but 
one  does  not  care  to  furnish  the  dark  background  for 
other  persons'  jewelry.] 

I  adjourned  from  the  table  in  company  with  the  old 
Master  to  his  apartments.  He  was  evidently  in  easy 
circumstances,  for  he  had  the  best  accommodations 
the  house  afforded.  We  passed  through  a  reception- 
room  to  his  library,  where  everything  showed  that  he 
had  ample  means  for  indulging  the  modest  tastes  of  a 
scholar. 

—  The  first  thing,  naturally,  when  one  enters  a 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.     209 

scholar's  study  or  library,  is  to  look  at  his  books. 
One  gets  a  notion  very  speedily  of  his  tastes  and  the 
range  of  his  pursuits  by  a  glance  round  his  book- 
shelves. 

Of  course,  you  know  there  are  many  fine  houses 
where  the  library  is  a  part  of  the  upholstery,  so  to 
speak.  Books  in  handsome  binding  kept  locked  under 
plate-glass  in  showy  dwarf  bookcases  are  as  important 
to  stylish  establishments  as  servants  in  livery,  who 
sit  with  folded  arms,  are  to  stylish  equipages.  I  sup- 
pose those  wonderful  statues  with  the  folded  arms  do 
sometimes  change  their  attitude,  and  I  suppose  those 
books  with  the  gilded  backs  do  sometimes  get  opened, 
but  it  is  nobody's  business  whether  they  do  or  not, 
and  it  is  not  best  to  ask  too  many  questions. 

This  sort  of  thing  is  common  enough,  but  there  is 
another  case  that  may  prove  deceptive  if  you  under- 
take to  judge  from  appearances.  Once  in  a  while 
you  will  come  on  a  house  where  you  will  find  a  family 
of  readers  and  almost  no  library.  Some  of  the  most 
indefatigable  devourers  of  literature  have  very  few 
books.  They  belong  to  book  clubs,  they  haunt  the 
public  libraries,  they  borrow  of  friends,  and  somehow 
or  other  get  hold  of  everything  they  want,  scoop  out 
all  it  holds  for  them,  and  have  done  with  it.  When 
/  want  a  book,  it  is  as  a  tiger  wants  a  sheep.  I  must 
have  it  with  one  spring,  and,  if  I  miss  it,  go  away  de- 
feated and  hungry.  And  my  experience  with  public 
libraries  is  that  the  first  volume  of  the  book  I  inquire 
for  is  out,  unless  I  happen  to  want  the  second,  when 
that  is  out. 

—  I  was  pretty  well  prepared  to  understand  the 
Master's  library  and  his  account  of  it.  We  seated 
ourselves  in  two  very  comfortable  chairs,  and  I  began 
the  conversation. 


210    THE  POET  AT  THE  BKEAKFAST-TABLE. 

—  I  see  you  have  a  large  and  rather  miscellaneous 
collection  of  books.     Did  you  get  them  together  by 
accident  or  according  to  some  preconceived  plan? 

—  Both,    sir,    both,  —  the     Master    answered.  — 
When  Providence  throws  a  good  book  in  my  way,  I 
bow  to  its  decree  and  purchase  it  as  an  act  of  piety, 
if  it  is  reasonably  or  unreasonably  cheap.     I  adopt 
a  certain  number  of  books  every  year,  out  of  a  love 
for  the  foundlings  and  stray  children  of  other  people's 
brains  that  nobody  seems  to  care  for.     Look  here. 

He  took  down  a  Greek  Lexicon  finely  bound  in 
calf,  and  spread  it  open. 

Do  you  see  that  Hedericus?  I  had  Greek  diction- 
aries enough  and  to  spare,  but  I  saw  that  noble  quarto 
lying  in  the  midst  of  an  ignoble  crowd  of  cheap  books, 
and  marked  with  a  price  which  I  felt  to  be  an  insult 
to  scholarship,  to  the  memory  of  Homer,  sir,  and  the 
awful  shade  of  .ZEschylus.  I  paid  the  mean  price 
asked  for  it,  and  I  wanted  to  double  it,  but  I  suppose 
it  would  have  been  a  foolish  sacrifice  of  coin  to  senti- 
ment. I  love  that  book  for  its  looks  and  behavior. 
None  of  your  "  half  -calf  "  economies  in  that  volume, 
sir!  And  see  how  it  lies  open  anywhere!  There 
is  n't  a  book  in  my  library  that  has  such  a  generous 
way  of  laying  its  treasures  before  you.  From  Alpha 
to  Omega,  calm,  assured  rest  at  any  page  that  your 
choice  or  accident  may  light  on.  No  lifting  of  a  re- 
bellious leaf  like  an  upstart  servant  that  does  not  know 
his  place  and  can  never  be  taught  manners,  but  tran* 
quil,  well-bred  repose.  A  book  may  be  a  perfect 
gentleman  in  its  aspect  and  demeanor,  and  this  book 
would  be  good  company  for  personages  like  Koger 
Ascham  and  his  pupils  the  Lady  Elizabeth  and  the 
Lady  Jane  Grey. 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.     211 

The  Master  was  evidently  riding  a  hobby,  and 
what  I  wanted  to  know  was  the  plan  on  which  he  had 
formed  his  library.  So  I  brought  him  back  to  the 
point  by  asking  him  the  question  in  so  many  words. 

Yes,  —  he  said,  —  I  have  a  kind  of  notion  of  the 
way  in  which  a  library  ought  $0  be  put  together  —  no, 
I  don't  mean  that,  I  mean  ought  to  grow.  I  don't 
pretend  to  say  that  mine  is  a  model,  but  it  serves  my 
turn  well  enough,  and  it  represents  me  pretty  accu- 
rately. A  scholar  must  shape  his  own  shell,  secrete  it 
one  might  almost  say,  for  secretion  is  only  separation, 
you  know,  of  certain  elements  derived  from  the  mate- 
rials of  the  world  about  us.  And  a  scholar's  study, 
with  the  books  lining  its  walls,  is  his  shell.  It  is  n't 
a  mollusk's  shell,  either;  it  's  a  caddice-worm's  shell. 
You  know  about  the  caddice-worm? 

—  More  or  less ;  less  rather  than  more,  —  was  my 
humble  reply. 

Well,  sir,  the  caddice-worm  is  the  larva  of  a  fly, 
and  he  makes  a  case  for  himself  out  of  all  sorts  of  bits 
of  everything  that  happen  to  suit  his  particular  fancy, 
dead  or  alive,  sticks  and  stones  and  small  shells  with 
their  owners  in  'em,  living  as  comfortable  as  ever. 
Every  one  of  these  caddice-worms  has  his  special  fancy 
as  to  what  he  will  pick  up  and  glue  together,  with  a 
kind  of  natural  cement  he  provides  himself,  to  make 
his  case  out  of.  In  it  he  lives,  sticking  his  head  and 
shoulders  out  once  in  a  while,  that  is  all.  Don't  you 
see  that  a  student  in  his  library  is  a  caddice-worm  in 
his  case?  I  've  told  you  that  I  take  an  interest  in 
pretty  much  everything,  and  don't  mean  to  fence  out 
any  human  interests  from  the  private  grounds  of  my 
intelligence.  Then,  again,  there  is  a  subject,  per- 
haps I  may  say  there  is  more  than  one,  that  I  want  to 


212    THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

exhaust,  to  know  to  the  very  bottom.  And  besides, 
of  course  I  must  have  my  literary  harem,  my  pare 
aux  cerfs,  where  my  favorites  await  my  moments  of 
leisure  and  pleasure,  —  my  scarce  and  precious  edi- 
tions, my  luxurious  typographical  masterpieces;  my 
Delilahs,  that  take  my  head  in  their  lap :  the  pleasant 
story-tellers  and  the  like ;  the  books  I  love  because  they 
are  fair  to  look  upon,  prized  by  collectors,  endeared 
by  old  associations,  secret  treasures  that  nobody  else 
knows  anything  about;  books,  in  short,  that  I  like 
for  insufficient  reasons  it  may  be,  but  peremptorily, 
and  mean  to  like  and  to  love  and  to  cherish  till  death 
us  do  part. 

Don't  you  see  I  have  given  you  a  key  to  the  way 
my  library  is  made  up,  so  that  you  can  apriorize  the 
plan  according  to  which  I  have  filled  my  bookcases? 
I  will  tell  you  how  it  is  carried  out. 

In  the  first  place,  you  see,  I  have  four  extensive 
cyclopaedias.  Out  of  tliese  I  can  get  information 
enough  to  serve  my  immediate  purpose  on  almost 
any  subject.  These,  of  course,  are  supplemented  by 
geographical,  biographical,  bibliographical,  and  other 
dictionaries,  including  of  course  lexicons  to  all  the  lan- 
guages I  ever  meddle  with.  Next  to  these  come  the 
works  relating  to  my  one  or  two  specialties,  and  these 
collections  I  make  as  perfect  as  I  can.  Every  library 
should  try  to  be  complete  on  something,  if  it  were 
only  on  the  history  of  pin-heads.  I  don't  mean  that 
I  buy  all  the  trashy  compilations  on  my  special  sub- 
jects, but  I  try  to  have  all  the  works  of  any  real  im- 
portance relating  to  them,  old  as  well  as  new.  In  the 
following  compartment  you  will  find  the  great  authors 
in  all  the  languages  I  have  mastered,  from  Homer  and 
Hesiod  downward  to  the  last  great  English  name. 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.     213 

This  division,  you  see,  you  can  make  almost  as  exten- 
sive or  as  limited  as  you  choose.  You  can  crowd  the 
great  representative  writers  into  a  small  compass;  or 
you  can  make  a  library  consisting  only  of  the  different 
editions  of  Horace,  if  you  have  space  and  money 
enough.  Then  comes  the  Harem,  the  shelf  or  the 
bookcase  of  Delilahs,  that  you  have  paid  wicked  prices 
for,  that  you  love  without  pretending  to  be  reasona- 
ble about  it,  and  would  bag  in  case  of  fire  before  all 
the  rest,  just  as  Mr.  Townley  took  the  Clytie  to  his 
carriage  when  the  anti-Catholic  mob  threatened  his 
house  in  1780.  As  for  the  foundlings  like  my  He- 
dericus,  they  go  among  their  peers ;  it  is  a  pleasure 
to  take  them  from  the  dusty  stall  where  they  were 
elbowed  by  plebeian  school-books  and  battered  odd 
volumes,  and  give  them  Alduses  and  Elzevirs  for 
companions. 

Nothing  remains  but  the  Infirmary.  The  most 
painful  subjects  are  the  unfortunates  that  have  lost 
a  cover.  Bound  a  hundred  years  ago,  perhaps,  and 
one  of  the  rich  old  browned  covers  gone  —  what  a 
pity !  Do  you  know  what  to  do  about  it  ?  I  '11  tell 
you,  —  no,  I  '11  show  you.  Look  at  this  volume. 
M.  T.  Oiceronis  Opera,  —  a  dozen  of  'em,  —  one  of 
'em  minus  half  his  cover,  a  poor  one-legged  cripple, 
six  months  ago,  —  now  see  him. 

—  He  looked  very  respectably  indeed,  both  covers 
dark,    ancient,    very   decently   matched;   one    would 
hardly  notice  the  fact  that  they  were  not  twins. 

—  I  '11  tell  you  what  I  did.     You  poor  devil,  said 
I,  you  are  a  disgrace  to  your  family.     We  must  send 
you  to  a  surgeon  and  have  some  kind  of  a  Taliacotian 
operation   performed   on  you.     (You   remember   the 
operation  as  described  in  Hudibras,  of  course.)     The 


214    THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

first  thing  was  to  find  a  subject  of  similar  age  and 
aspect  ready  to  part  with  one  of  his  members.  So  I 
went  to  Quidlibet's, — you  know  Quidlibet  and  that 
hieroglyphic  sign  of  his  with  the  omniscient-looking 
eye  as  its  most  prominent  feature,  —  and  laid  my  case 
before  him.  I  want  you,  said  I,  to  look  up  an  old 
book  of  mighty  little  value,  —  one  of  your  ten-cent 
vagabonds  would  be  the  sort  of  thing,  —  but  an  old 
beggar,  with  a  cover  like  this,  and  lay  it  by  for  me. 

And  Quidlibet,  who  is  a  pleasant  body  to  deal  with, 
—  only  he  has  insulted  one  or  two  gentlemanly  books 
by  selling  them  to  me  at  very  low-bred  and  shamefully 
insufficient  prices,  —  Quidlibet,  I  say,  laid  by  three 
old  books  for  me  to  help  myself  from,  and  didn't  take 
the  trouble  even  to  make  me  pay  the  thirty  cents  for 
'em.  Well,  said  I  to  myself,  let  us  look  at  our  three 
books  that  have  undergone  the  last  insult  short  of  the 
trunk-maker's  or  the  paper-mills,  and  see  what  they 
are.  There  may  be  something  worth  looking  at  in 
one  or  the  other  of  'em. 

Now  do  you  know  it  was  with  a  kind  of  a  tremor 
that  I  untied  the  package  and  looked  at  these  three 
unfortunates,  too  humble  for  the  companionable  dime 
to  recognize  as  its  equal  in  value.  The  same  sort  of 
feeling  you  know  if  you  ever  tried  the  Bible-and-key, 
or  the  Sortes  Virgiliance.  I  think  you  will  like  to 
know  what  the  three  books  were  which  had  been  be- 
stowed upon  me  gratis,  that  I  might  tear  away  one 
of  the  covers  of  the  one  that  best  matched  my  Cicero, 
and  give  it  to  the  binder  to  cobble  my  crippled  volume 
with. 

The  Master  took  the  three  books  from  a  cupboard 
and  continued. 

No.  I.     An  odd  volume  of   The  Adventurer.     It 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.    215 

has  many  interesting  things  enough,  but  is  made  pre- 
cious by  containing  Simon  Browne's  famous  Dedica- 
tion to  the  Queen  of  his  Answer  to  TindaFs  "Chris- 
tianity as  old  as  the  Creation."  Simon  Browne  was 
the  Man  without  a  Soul.  An  excellent  person,  a 
most  worthy  dissenting  minister,  but  lying  under  a 
strange  delusion. 

Here  is  a  paragraph  from  his  Dedication :  — 

"  He  was  once  a  man ;  and  of  some  little  name ; 
but  of  no  worth,  as  his  present  unparalleled  case 
makes  but  too  manifest;  for  by  the  immediate  hand 
of  an  avenging  GOD,  his  very  thinking  substance 
has,  for  more  than  seven  years,  been  continually  wast- 
ing away,  till  it  is  wholly  perished  out  of  him,  if  it 
be  not  utterly  come  to  nothing.  None,  no,  not  the 
least  remembrance  of  its  very  ruins,  remains,  not  the 
shadow  of  an  idea  is  left,  nor  any  sense  that  so  much 
as  one  single  one,  perfect  or  imperfect,  whole  or  di- 
minished, ever  did  appear  to  a  mind  within  him,  or 
was  perceived  by  it." 

Think  of  this  as  the  Dedication  of  a  book  "univer- 
sally allowed  to  be  the  best  which  that  controversy 
produced,"  and  what  a  flood  of  light  it  pours  on  the 
insanities  of  those  self -analyzing  diarists  whose  mor- 
bid reveries  have  been  so  often  mistaken  for  piety! 
No.  I.  had  something  for  me,  then,  besides  the  cover, 
which  was  all  it  claimed  to  have  worth  offering. 

No.  II.  was  "A  View  of  Society  and  Manners  in 
Italy."  Vol.  III.  By  John  Moore,  M.  D.  (Zeluco 
Moore.)  You  know  his  pleasant  book.  In  this  par- 
ticular volume  what  interested  me  most,  perhaps,  was 
the  very  spirited  and  intelligent  account  of  the  miracle 
of  the  liquefaction  of  the  blood  of  Saint  Januarius, 
but  it  gave  me  an  hour's  mighty  agreeable  reading. 
So  much  for  Number  Two. 


216     THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

No.  III.  was  "An  ESSAY  on  the  Great  EFFECTS 
of  Even  Languid  and  Unheeded  LOCAL  MOTION." 
By  the  Hon.  Kobert  Boyle.  Published  in  1685,  and, 
as  appears  from  other  sources,  "received  with  great 
and  general  applause."  I  confess  I  was  a  little  star- 
tled to  find  how  near  this  earlier  philosopher  had  come 
to  the  modern  doctrines,  such  as  are  illustrated  in 
TyndalTs  "Heat  considered  as  a  Mode  of  Motion." 
He  speaks  of  "Us,  who  endeavor  to  resolve  the  Phe- 
nomena of  Nature  into  Matter  and  Local  motion." 
That  sounds  like  the  nineteenth  century,  but  what 
shall  we  say  to  this?  "As  when  a  bar  of  iron  or  sil- 
ver, having  been  well  hammered,  is  newly  taken  off 
of  the  anvil ;  though  the  eye  can  discern  no  motion  in 
it,  yet  the  touch  will  readily  perceive  it  to  be  very  hot, 
and  if  you  spit  upon  it,  the  brisk  agitation  of  the  in- 
sensible parts  will  become  visible  in  that  which  they 
will  produce  in  the  liquor."  He  takes  a  bar  of  tin, 
and  tries  whether  by  bending  it  to  and  fro  two  or 
three  times  he  cannot  "procure  a  considerable  internal 
commotion  among  the  parts " ;  and  having  by  this 
means  broken  or  cracked  it  in  the  middle,  finds,  as  he 
expected,  that  the  middle  parts  had  considerably 
heated  each  other.  There  are  many  other  curious  and 
interesting  observations  in  the  volume  which  I  should 
like  to  tell  you  of,  but  these  will  serve  my  purpose. 

—  Which  book   furnished  you  the  old  cover  you 
wanted  ?  —  said  I. 

—  Did  he  Ml  the  owl?  —  said  the  Master,  laugh- 
ing.    [I  suppose  you,  the  reader,  know  the  owl  story.] 
—  It  was  Number  Two  that  lent  me  one  of  his  covers. 
Poor  wretch !     He  was  one  of  three,  and  had  lost  his 
two  brothers.     From  him  that  hath  not  shall  be  taken 
even  that  which  he  hath.     The  Scripture  had  to  be 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.    217 

fulfilled  in  his  case.  But  I  could  n't  help  saying  to 
myself,  What  do  you  keep  writing  books  for,  when 
the  stalls  are  covered  all  over  with  'em,  good  books, 
too,  that  nobody  will  give  ten  cents  apiece  for,  lying 
there  like  so  many  dead  beasts  of  burden,  of  no 
account  except  to  strip  off  their  hides?  What  is  the 
use,  I  say?  I  have  made  a  book  or  two  in  my  time, 
and  I  am  making  another  that  perhaps  will  see  the 
light  one  of  these  days.  But  if  I  had  my  life  to  live 
over  again,  I  think  I  should  go  in  for  silence,  and 
get  as  near  to  Nirvana  as  I  could.  This  language 
is  such  a  paltry  tool !  The  handle  of  it  cuts  and  the 
blade  does  n't.  You  muddle  yourself  by  not  know- 
ing what  you  mean  by  a  word,  and  send  out  your  un- 
answered riddles  and  rebuses  to  clear  up  other  peo- 
ple's difficulties.  It  always  seems  to  me  that  talk  is 
a  ripple  and  thought  is  a  ground  swell.  A  string  of 
words,  that  mean  pretty  much  anything,  helps  you  in 
a  certain  sense  to  get  hold  of  a  thought,  just  as  a 
string  of  syllables  that  mean  nothing  helps  you  to  a 
word;  but  it 's  a  poor  business,  it 's  a  poor  business, 
and  the  more  you  study  definition  the  more  you  find 
out  how  poor  it  is.  Do  you  know  I  sometimes  think 
our  little  entomological  neighbor  is  doing  a  sounder 
business  than  we  people  that  make  books  about  our- 
selves and  our  slippery  abstractions?  A  man  can  see 
the  spots  on  a  bug  and  count  'em,  and  tell  what  their 
color  is,  and  put  another  bug  alongside  of  him  and 
see  whether  the  two  are  alike  or  different.  And  when 
he  uses  a  word  he  knows  just  what  he  means.  There 
is  no  mistake  as  to  the  meaning  and  identity  of  pulex 
irritans,  confound  him ! 

—  What  if  we  should  look  in,   some  day,  on  the 
Scarabeeist,  as  he  calls  himself  ?  —  said  I.  —  The  fact 


218     THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

is  the  Master  had  got  agoing  at  such  a  rate  that  I 
was  willing  to  give  a  little  turn  to  the  conversation. 

—  Oh,  very  well,  — said  the  Master,  — I  had  some 
more  things  to  say,  but  I  don't  doubt  they  '11  keep. 
And  besides,  I  take  an  interest  in  entomology,  and 
have  my  own  opinion  on  the  meloe  question. 

—  You  don't  mean  to  say  you  have  studied  insects 
as  well  as  solar  systems  and  the  order  of  things  gen- 
erally? 

—  He    looked    pleased.      All     philosophers    look 
pleased  when  people  say  to  them  virtually,  "Ye  are 
gods."     The  Master  says  he  is  vain  constitutionally, 
and  thanks  God  that  he  is.     I  don't  think  he  has 
enough  vanity  to  make  a  fool  of  himself  with  it,  but 
the  simple  truth  is  he  cannot  help  knowing  that  he 
has  a  wide  and  lively  intelligence,  and  it  pleases  him 
to  know  it,  and  to  be  reminded  of  it,  especially  in  an 
oblique  and  tangential  sort  of  way,  so  as  not  to  look 
like  downright  flattery. 

Yes,  yes,  I  have  amused  a  summer  or  two  with  in- 
sects, among  other  things.  I  described  a  new  tabanus, 
—  horsefly,  you  know,  —  which,  I  think,  had  escaped 
notice.  I  felt  as  grand  when  I  showed  up  my  new 
discovery  as  if  I  had  created  the  beast.  I  don't  doubt 
Herschel  felt  as  if  he  had  made  a  planet  when  he  first 
showed  the  astronomers  Georgium  Sidus^  as  he  called 
it.  And  that  reminds  me  of  something.  I  was  rid- 
ing on  the  outside  of  a  stage-coach  from  London  to 
Windsor  in  the  year  —  never  mind  the  year,  but  it 
must  have  been  in  June,  I  suppose,  for  I  bought  some 
strawberries.  England  owes  me  a  sixpence  with  in- 
terest from  date,  for  I  gave  the  woman  a  shilling,  and 
the  coach  contrived  to  start  or  the  woman  timed  it  so 
that  I  just  missed  getting  my  change.  What  an  odd 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.    219 

thing  memory  is,  to  be  sure,  to  have  kept  such  a  tri- 
viality, and  have  lost  so  much  that  was  invaluable ! 
She  is  a  crazy  wench,  that  Mnemosyne;  she  throws 
her  jewels  out  of  the  window  and  locks  up  straws  and 
old  rags  in  her  strong  box. 

[De  profundis  I  said  I  to  myself,  the  bottom  of  the 
bushel  has  dropped  out!  Sancta  Maria,  or  a  pro 
nobis  /] 

—  But  as  I  was  saying,  I  was  riding  on  the  outside 
of  a  stage-coach  from  London  to  Windsor,  when  all 
at  once  a  picture  familiar  to  me  from  my  New  Eng- 
land village  childhood  came  upon  me  like  a  reminis- 
cence rather  than  a  revelation.  It  was  a  mighty  be- 
wilderment of  slanted  masts  and  spars  and  ladders  and 
ropes,  from  the  midst  of  which  a  vast  tube,  looking  as 
if  it  might  be  a  piece  of  ordnance  such  as  the  revolted 
angels  battered  the  walls  of  Heaven  with,  according 
to  Milton,  lifted  its  muzzle  defiantly  towards  the  sky. 
Why,  you  blessed  old  rattletrap,  said  I  to  myself,  I 
know  you  as  well  as  I  know  my  father's  spectacles  and 
snuff-box !  And  that  same  crazy  witch  of  a  Memory, 
so  divinely  wise  and  foolish,  travels  thirty-five  hun- 
dred miles  or  so  in  a  single  pulse-beat,  makes  straight 
for  an  old  house  and  an  old  library  and  an  old  corner 
of  it,  and  whisks  out  a  volume  of  an  old  cyclopedia, 
and  there  is  the  picture  of  which  this  is  the  original. 
Sir  William  Herschel's  great  telescope!  It  was  just 
about  as  big,  as  it  stood  there  by  the  roadside,  as  it 
was  in  the  picture,  not  much  different  any  way. 
Why  should  it  be?  The  pupil  of  your  eye  is  only  a 
gimlet-hole,  not  so  very  much  bigger  than  the  eye  of 
a  sail-needle,  and  a  camel  has  to  go  through  it  before 
you  can  see  him.  You  look  into  a  stereoscope  and 
think  you  see  a  miniature  of  a  building  or  a  mountain ; 


220    THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

you  don't,  you  're  made  a  fool  of  by  your  lying  intel- 
ligence^ as  you  call  it;  you  see  the  building  and  the 
mountain  just  as  large  as  with  your  naked  eye  looking 
straight  at  the  real  objects.  Doubt  it,  do  you?  Per- 
haps you  'd  like  to  doubt  it  to  the  music  of  a  couple 
of  gold  five-dollar  pieces.  If  you  would,  say  the 
word,  and  man  and  money,  as  Messrs.  Heenan  and 
Morrissey  have  it,  shall  be  forthcoming;  for  I  will 
make  you  look  at  a  real  landscape  with  your  right  eye, 
and  a  stereoscopic  view  of  it  with  your  left  eye,  both 
at  once,  and  you  can  slide  one  over  the  other  by  a 
little  management  and  see  how  exactly  the  picture 
overlies  the  true  landscape.  We  won't  try  it  now, 
because  I  want  to  read  you  something  out  of  my  book. 
—  I  have  noticed  that  the  Master  very  rarely  fails 
to  come  back  to  his  original  proposition,  though  he, 
like  myself,  is  fond  of  zigzagging  in  order  to  reach  it. 
Men's  minds  are  like  the  pieces  on  a  chess-board  in 
their  way  of  moving.  One  mind  creeps  from  the 
square  it  is  on  to  the  next,  straight  forward,  like  the 
pawns.  Another  sticks  close  to  its  own  line  of 
thought  and  follows  it  as  far  as  it  goes,  with  no  heed 
for  others'  opinions,  as  the  bishop  sweeps  the  board 
in  the  line  of  his  own  color.  And  another  class  of 
minds  break  through  everything  that  lies  before  them, 
ride  over  argument  and  opposition,  and  go  to  the  end 
of  the  board,  like  the  castle.  But  there  is  still  an- 
other  sort  of  intellect  which  is  very  apt  to  jump  over 
the  thought  that  stands  next  and  come  down  in  the 
unexpected  way  of  the  knight.  But  that  same  knight, 
as  the  chess  manuals  will  show  you,  will  contrive  to 
get  on  to  every  square  of  the  board  in  a  pretty  series 
of  moves  that  looks  like  a  pattern  of  embroidery,  and 
so  these  zigzagging  minds  like  the  Master's,  and  I 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.     221 

suppose  my  own  is  something  like  it,  will  sooner  or 
later  get  back  to  the  square  next  the  one  they  started 
from. 

The  Master  took  down  a  volume  from  one  of  the 
shelves.  I  could  not  help  noticing  that  it  was  a  shelf 
near  his  hand  as  he  sat,  and  that  the  volume  looked  as 
if  he  had  made  frequent  use  of  it.  I  saw,  too,  that 
he  handled  it  in  a  loving  sort  of  way ;  the  tenderness 
he  would  have  bestowed  on  a  wife  and  children  had 
to  find  a  channel  somewhere,  and  what  more  natural 
than  that  he  should  look  fondly  on  the  volume  which 
held  the  thoughts  that  had  rolled  themselves  smooth 
and  round  in  his  mind  like  pebbles  on  a  beach,  the 
dreams  which,  under  cover  of  the  simple  artifices  such 
as  all  writers  use,  told  the  little  world  of  readers  his 
secret  hopes  and  aspirations,  the  fancies  which  had 
pleased  him  and  which  he  could  not  bear  to  let  die 
without  trying  to  please  others  with  them  ?  I  have  a 
great  sympathy  with  authors,  most  of  all  with  unsuc- 
cessful ones.  If  one  had  a  dozen  lives  or  so,  it  would 
all  be  very  well,  but  to  have  only  a  single  ticket  in 
the  great  lottery,  and  have  that  drawn  a  blank,  is  a 
rather  sad  sort  of  thing.  So  I  was  pleased  to  see  the 
affectionate  kind  of  pride  with  which  the  Master 
handled  his  book ;  it  was  a  success,  in  its  way,  and  he 
looked  on  it  with  a  cheerful  sense  that  he  had  a  right 
to  be  proud  of  it.  The  Master  opened  the  volume, 
and,  putting  on  his  large  round  glasses,  began  read- 
ing, as  authors  love  to  read  that  love  their  books. 

—  The  only  good  reason  for  believing  in  the  stabil- 
ity of  the  moral  order  of  things  is  to  be  found  in  the 
tolerable  steadiness  of  human  averages.  Out  of  a 
hundred  human  beings  fifty -one  will  be  found  in  the 


222     THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

long  run  on  the  side  of  the  right,  so  far  as  they  know 
it,  and  against  the  wrong.  They  will  be  organizers 
rather  than  disorganizers,  helpers  and  not  hinderers 
in  the  upward  movement  of  the  race.  This  is  the 
main  fact  we  have  to  depend  on.  The  right  hand  of 
the  great  organism  is  a  little  stronger  than  the  left, 
that  is  all. 

Now  and  then  we  come  across  a  left-handed  man. 
So  now  and  then  we  find  a  tribe  or  a  generation,  the 
subject  of  what  we  may  call  moral  left-handedness, 
but  that  need  not  trouble  us  about  our  formula.  All 
we  have  to  do  is  to  spread  the  average  over  a  wider 
territory  or  a  longer  period  of  time.  Any  race  or 
period  that  insists  on  being  left-handed  must  go  under 
if  it  comes  in  contact  with  a  right-handed  one.  If 
there  were,  as  a  general  rule,  fifty-one  rogues  in  the 
hundred  instead  of  forty-nine,  all  other  qualities  of 
mind  and  body  being  equally  distributed  between  the 
two  sections,  the  order  of  things  would  sooner  or  later 
end  in  universal  disorder.  It  is  the  question  between 
the  leak  and  the  pumps. 

It  does  not  seem  very  likely  that  the  Creator  of  all 
things  is  taken  by  surprise  at  witnessing  anything  any 
of  his  creatures  do  or  think.  Men  have  sought  out 
many  inventions,  but  they  can  have  contrived  nothing 
which  did  not  exist  as  an  idea  in  the  omniscient  con- 
sciousness to  which  past,  present,  and  future  are  alike 
Now. 

We  read  what  travellers  tell  us  about  the  King  of 
Dahomey,  or  the  Fejee  Island  people,  or  the  short 
and  simple  annals  of  the  celebrities  recorded  in  the 
Newgate  Calendar,  and  do  not  know  just  what  to 
make  of  these  brothers  and  sisters  of  the  race;  but 
I  do  not  suppose  an  intelligence  even  as  high  as  the 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.    223 

angelic  beings,  to  stop  short  there,  would  see  anything 
very  peculiar  or  wonderful  about  them,  except  as 
everything  is  wonderful  and  unlike  everything  else. 

It  is  very  curious  to  see  how  science,  that  is,  look- 
ing at  and  arranging  the  facts  of  a  case  with  our  own 
eyes  and  our  own  intelligence,  without  minding  what 
somebody  else  has  said,  or  how  some  old  majority  vote 
went  in  a  pack  of  intriguing  ecclesiastics,  —  I  say  it 
is  very  curious  to  see  how  science  is  catching  up  with 
one  superstition  after  another. 

There  is  a  recognized  branch  of  science  familiar  to 
all  those  who  know  anything  of  the  studies  relating 
to  life,  under  the  name  of  Teratology.  It  deals  with 
all  sorts  of  monstrosities  which  are  to  be  met  with  in 
living  beings,  and  more  especially  in  animals.  It  is 
found  that  what  used  to  be  called  lusus  naturce,  or 
freaks  of  nature,  are  just  as  much  subject  to  laws  as 
the  naturally  developed  forms  of  living  creatures. 

The  rustic  looks  at  the  Siamese  twins,  and  thinks 
he  is  contemplating  an  unheard-of  anomaly ;  but  there 
are  plenty  of  cases  like  theirs  in  the  books  of  scholars, 
and  though  they  are  not  quite  so  common  as  double 
cherries,  the  mechanism  of  their  formation  is  not  a 
whit  more  mysterious  than  that  of  the  twinned  fruits. 
Such  cases  do  not  disturb  the  average  arrangement ; 
we  have  Changs  and  Engs  at  one  pole,  and  Cains  and 
Abels  at  the  other.  One  child  is  born  with  six  fin- 
gers  on  each  hand,  and  another  falls  short  by  one  or 
more  fingers  of  his  due  allowance ;  but  the  glover  puts 
his  faith  in  the  great  law  of  averages,  and  makes  his 
gloves  with  five  fingers  apiece,  trusting  nature  for 
their  counterparts. 

Thinking  people  are  not  going  to  be  scared  out  of 
explaining  or  at  least  trying  to  explain  things  by  the 


224    THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

shrieks  of  persons  whose  beliefs  are  disturbed  thereby. 
Comets  were  portents  to  Increase  Mather,  President 
of  Harvard  College;  "preachers  of  Divine  wrath, 
heralds  and  messengers  of  evil  tidings  to  the  world." 
It  is  not  so  very  long  since  Professor  Winthrop  was 
teaching  at  the  same  institution.  I  can  remember 
two  of  his  boys  very  well,  old  boys,  it  is  true,  they 
were,  and  one  of  them  wore  a  three-cornered  cocked 
hat;  but  the  father  of  these  boys,  whom,  as  I  say, 
I  can  remember,  had  to  defend  himself  against  the 
minister  of  the  Old  South  Church  for  the  impiety  of 
trying  to  account  for  earthquakes  on  natural  princi- 
ples. And  his  ancestor,  Governor  Winthrop,  would 
probably  have  shaken  his  head  over  his  descendant's 
dangerous  audacity,  if  one  may  judge  by  the  solemn 
way  in  which  he  mentions  poor  Mrs.  Hutchinson's  un- 
pleasant experience,  which  so  grievously  disappointed 
her  maternal  expectations.  But  people  used  always  to 
be  terribly  frightened  by  those  irregular  vital  products 
which  we  now  call  "interesting  specimens"  and  care- 
fully preserve  in  jars  of  alcohol.  It  took  next  to 
nothing  to  make  a  panic;  a  child  was  born  a  few 
centuries  ago  with  six  teeth  in  its  head,  and  about 
that  time  the  Turks  began  gaining  great  advantages 
over  the  Christians.  Of  course  there  was  an  intimate 
connection  between  the  prodigy  and  the  calamity. 
So  said  the  wise  men  of  that  day. 

—  All  these  out-of-the-way  cases  are  studied  con- 
nectedly now,  and  are  found  to  obey  very  exact  rules. 
With  a  little  management  one  can  even  manufacture 
living  monstrosities.  Malformed  salmon  and  other 
fish  can  be  supplied  in  quantity,  if  anybody  happens 
to  want  them. 

Now,  what  all  I  have  said  is  tending  to  is  exactly 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.    225 

this,  namely,  that  just  as  the  celestial  movements  are 
regulated  by  fixed  laws,  just  as  bodily  monstrosities 
are  produced  according  to  rule,  and  with  as  good  rea- 
son as  normal  shapes,  so  obliquities  of  character  are 
to  be  accounted  for  on  perfectly  natural  principles; 
they  are  just  as  capable  of  classification  as  the  bodily 
ones,  and  they  all  diverge  from  a  certain  average  or 
middle  term  which  is  the  type  of  its  kind. 

If  life  had  been  a  little  longer  I  would  have  written 
a  number  of  essays  for  which,  as  it  is,  I  cannot  expect 
to  have  time.  I  have  set  down  the  titles  of  a  hun- 
dred or  more,  and  I  have  often  been  tempted  to  pub- 
lish these,  for  according  to  my  idea,  the  title  of  a 
book  very  often  renders  the  rest  of  it  unnecessary. 
"Moral  Teratology,"  for  instance,  which  is  marked 
No.  67  on  my  list  of  "Essays  Potential,  not  Actual," 
suggests  sufficiently  well  what  I  should  be  like  to  say 
in  the  pages  it  would  preface.  People  hold  up  their 
hands  at  a  moral  monster  as  if  there  was  no  reason  for 
his  existence  but  his  own  choice.  That  was  a  fine 
specimen  we  read  of  in  the  papers  a  few  years  ago,  — 
the  Frenchman,  it  may  be  remembered,  who  used  to 
waylay  and  murder  young  women,  and  after  appro- 
priating their  effects,  bury  their  bodies  in  a  private 
cemetery  he  kept  for  that  purpose.  It  is  very  nat- 
ural, and  I  do  not  say  it  is  not  very  proper,  to  hang 
such  eccentric  persons  as  this;  but  it  is  not  clear 
whether  his  vagaries  produce  any  more  sensation  at 
Headquarters  than  the  meek  enterprises  of  the  mild- 
est of  city  missionaries.  For  the  study  of  Moral 
Teratology  will  teach  you  that  you  do  not  get  such  a 
malformed  character  as  that  without  a  long  chain  of 
causes  to  account  for  it ;  and  if  you  only  knew  those 
causes,  you  would  know  perfectly  well  what  to  expect. 


226     THE  POET  AT  THE  BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 

You  may  feel  pretty  sure  that  our  friend  of  the  pri- 
vate cemetery  was  not  the  child  of  pious  and  intelli- 
gent parents ;  that  he  was  not  nurtured  by  the  best  of 
mothers,  and  educated  by  the  most  judicious  teach- 
ers ;  and  that  he  did  not  come  of  a  lineage  long  known 
and  honored  for  its  intellectual  and  moral  qualities. 
Suppose  that  one  should  go  to  the  worst  quarter  of 
the  city  and  pick  out  the  worst-looking  child  of  the 
worst  couple  he  could  find,  and  then  train  him  up  suc- 
cessively at  the  School  for  Infant  Rogues,  the  Acad- 
emy for  Young  Scamps,  and  the  College  for  Complete 
Criminal  Education,  would  it  be  reasonable  to  expect 
a  Fran£ois  Xavier  or  a  Henry  Martyn  to  be  the  result 
of  such  a  training?  The  traditionists,  in  whose  pre- 
sumptuous hands  the  science  of  anthropology  has 
been  trusted  from  time  immemorial,  have  insisted  on 
eliminating  cause  and  effect  from  the  domain  of  mor- 
als. When  they  have  come  across  a  moral  monster 
they  have  seemed  to  think  that  he  put  himself  to- 
gether, having  a  free  choice  of  all  the  constituents 
which  make  up  manhood,  and  that  consequently  no 
punishment  could  be  too  bad  for  him. 

I  say,  hang  him  and  welcome,  if  that  is  the  best 
thing  for  society ;  hate  him,  in  a  certain  sense,  as  you 
hate  a  rattlesnake,  but,  if  you  pretend  to  be  a  philo- 
sopher, recognize  the  fact  that  what  you  hate  in  him  is 
chiefly  misfortune,  and  that  if  you  had  been  born  with 
his  villanous  low  forehead  and  poisoned  instincts,  and 
bred  among  creatures  of  the  Races  Maudites  whose 
natural  history  has  to  be  studied  like  that  of  beasts 
of  prey  and  vermin,  you  would  not  have  been  sitting 
there  in  your  gold-bowed  spectacles  and  passing  judg- 
ment on  the  peccadilloes  of  your  fellow-creatures. 

I  have  seen  men  and  women  so  disinterested  and 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.    227 

noble,  and  devoted  to  the  best  works,  that  it  appeared 
to  me  if  any  good  and  faithful  servant  was  entitled  to 
enter  into  the  joys  of  his  Lord,  such  as  these  might 
be.  But  I  do  not  know  that  I  ever  met  with  a  human 
being  who  seemed  to  me  to  have  a  stronger  claim  on 
the  pitying  consideration  and  kindness  of  his  Maker 
than  a  wretched,  puny,  crippled,  stunted  child  that  I 
saw  in  Newgate,  who  was  pointed  out  as  one  of  the 
most  notorious  and  inveterate  little  thieves  in  London. 
I  have  no  doubt  that  some  of  those  who  were  looking 
at  this  pitiable  morbid  secretion  of  the  diseased  social 
organism  thought  they  were  very  virtuous  for  hating 
him  so  heartily. 

It  is  natural,  and  in  one  sense  is  all  right  enough. 
I  want  to  catch  a  thief  and  put  the  extinguisher  on  an 
incendiary  as  much  as  my  neighbors  do ;  but  I  have 
two  sides  to  my  consciousness  as  I  have  two  sides  to 
my  heart,  one  carrying  dark,  impure  blood,  and  the 
other  the  bright  stream  which  has  been  purified  and 
vivified  by  the  great  source  of  life  and  death,  —  the 
oxygen  of  the  air  which  gives  all  things  their  vital 
heat,  and  burns  all  things  at  last  to  ashes. 

One  side  of  me  loves  and  hates ;  the  other  side  of 
me  judges,  say  rather  pleads  and  suspends  judgment. 
I  think,  if  I  were  left  to  myself,  I  should  hang  a  rogue 
and  then  write  his  apology  and  subscribe  to  a  neat 
monument,  commemorating,  not  his  virtues,  but  his 
misfortunes.  I  should,  perhaps,  adorn  the  marble 
with  emblems,  as  is  the  custom  with  regard  to  the  more 
regular  and  normally  constituted  members  of  society. 
It  would  not  be  proper  to  put  the  image  of  a  lamb 
upon  the  stone  which  marked  the  resting-place  of  him 
of  the  private  cemetery.  But  I  would  not  hesitate  to 
place  the  effigy  of  a  wolf  or  a  hyena  upon  the  monu- 


228     THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

ment.  I  do  not  judge  these  animals,  I  only  kill  them, 
or  shut  them  up.  I  presume  they  stand  just  as  well 
with  their  Maker  as  lambs  and  kids,  and  the  ex- 
istence of  such  beings  is  a  perpetual  plea  for  God 
Almighty's  poor,  yelling,  scalping  Indians,  his  wea~ 
sand-stopping  Thugs,  his  despised  felons,  his  murder- 
ing miscreants,  and  all  the  unfortunates  whom  we, 
picked  individuals  of  a  picked  class  of  a  picked  race, 
scrubbed,  combed,  and  catechized  from  our  cradles 
upward,  undertake  to  find  accommodations  for  in  an- 
other state  of  being  where  it  is  to  be  hoped  they  will 
have  a  better  chance  than  they  had  in  this. 

The  Master  paused,  and  took  off  his  great  round 
spectacles.  I  could  not  help  thinking  that  he  looked 
benevolent  enough  to  pardon  Judas  Iscariot  just  at 
that  moment,  though  his  features  can  knot  themselves 
up  pretty  formidably  on  occasion. 

—  You  are  somewhat  of  a  phrenologist,  I  judge,  by 
the  way  you  talk  of  instinctive  and  inherited  tenden- 
cies —  I  said. 

—  They  tell  me  I  ought  to  be,  —  he  answered,  par- 
rying my  question,  as  I  thought.  —  I  have  had  a 
famous  chart  made  out  of  my  cerebral  organs,  accord- 
ing to  which  I  ought  to  have  been  —  something  more 
than  a  poor  Magister  Artium. 

—  I  thought  a  shade  of  regret  deepened  the  lines 
on  his  broad,  antique-looking  forehead,  and  I  began 
talking  about  all  the  sights  I  had  seen  in  the  way  of 
monstrosities,  of  which  I  had  a  considerable  list,  as 
you  will  see  when  I  tell  you  my  weakness  in  that  di- 
rection.    This,  you  understand,  Beloved,   is  private 
and  confidential. 

I  pay  my  quarter  of  a  dollar  and  go  into  all  the 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.     229 

side-shows  that  follow  the  caravans  and  circuses  round 
the  country.  I  have  made  friends  of  all  the  giants 
and  all  the  dwarfs.  I  became  acquainted  with  Mon- 
sieur Bihin,  le  plus  bel  homme  du  monde,  and  one  of 
the  biggest,  a  great  many  years  ago,  and  have  kept 
up  my  agreeable  relations  with  him  ever  since.  He 
is  a  most  interesting  giant,  with  a  softness  of  voice 
and  tenderness  of  feeling  which  I  find  very  engaging. 
I  was  on  friendly  terms  with  Mr.  Charles  Freeman,  a 
very  superior  giant  of  American  birth,  seven  feet  four, 
I  think,  in  height,  "double- jointed,"  of  mylodon  mus- 
cularity, the  same  who  in  a  British  prize-ring  tossed 
the  Tipton  Slasher  from  one  side  of  the  rope  to  the 
other,  and  now  lies  stretched,  poor  fellow !  in  a  mighty 
grave  in  the  same  soil  which  holds  the  sacred  ashes  of 
Cribb,  and  the  honored  dust  of  Burke,  —  not  the  one 
"commonly  called  the  sublime,"  but  that  other  Burke 
to  whom  Nature  had  denied  the  sense  of  hearing  lest 
he  should  be  spoiled  by  listening  to  the  praises  of  the 
admiring  circles  which  looked  on  his  dear-bought  tri- 
umphs. Nor  have  I  despised  those  little  ones  whom 
that  devout  worshipper  of  Nature  in  her  exceptional 
forms,  the  distinguished  Barnum,  has  introduced  to 
the  notice  of  mankind.  The  General  touches  his 
chapeau  to  me,  and  the  Commodore  gives  me  a  sailor's 
greeting.  I  have  had  confidential  interviews  with  the 
double-headed  daughter  of  Africa,  —  so  far,  at  least, 
as  her  twofold  personality  admitted  of  private  confi- 
dences. I  have  listened  to  the  touching  experiences 
of  the  Bearded  Lady,  whose  rough  cheeks  belie  her 
susceptible  heart.  Miss  Jane  Campbell  has  allowed 
me  to  question  her  on  the  delicate  subject  of  avoirdu- 
pois equivalents ;  and  the  armless  fair  one,  whose  em- 
brace no  monarch  could  hope  to  win,  has  wrought  me 


230    THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

a  watch-paper  with  those  despised  digits  which  have 
been  degraded  from  gloves  to  boots  in  our  evolution 
from  the  condition  of  quadrumana. 

I  hope  you  have  read  my  experiences  as  good-na- 
turedly as  the  old  Master  listened  to  them.  He 
seemed  to  be  pleased  with  my  whim,  and  promised  to 
go  with  me  to  see  all  the  side-shows  of  the  next  cara- 
van. Before  I  left  him  he  wrote  my  name  in  a  copy 
of  the  new  edition  of  his  book,  telling  me  that  it  would 
not  all  be  new  to  me  by  a  great  deal,  for  he  often 
talked  what  he  had  printed  to  make  up  for  having 
printed  a  good  deal  of  what  he  had  talked. 

Here  is  the  passage  of  his  Poem  the  Young  Astron- 
omer read  to  us. 


WIND-CLOUDS  AND  STAR-DRIFTS. 

IV. 

From  my  lone  turret  as  I  look  around 
O'er  the  green  meadows  to  the  ring  of  blue, 
From  slope,  from  summit,  and  from  half-hid  vale 
The  sky  is  stabbed  with  dagger-pointed  spires, 
Their  gilded  symbols  whirling  in  the  wind, 
Their  brazen  tongues  proclaiming  to  the  world, 
"  Here  truth  is  sold,  the  only  genuine  ware  ; 
See  that  it  has  our  trade-mark  !     You  will  buy 
Poison  instead  of  food  across  the  way, 

The  lies  of  " this  or  that,  each  several  name 

The  standard's  blazon  and  the  battle-cry 

Of  some  true-gospel  faction,  and  again 

The  token  of  the  Beast  to  all  beside. 

And  grouped  round  each  I  see  a  huddling  crowd 

Alike  in  all  things  save  the  words  they  use  ; 

In  love,  in  longing,  hate  and  fear  the  same. 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.    231 

Whom  do  we  trust  and  serve  ?     We  speak  of  one 
And  bow  to  many  ;  Athens  still  would  find 
The  shrines  of  all  she  worshipped  safe  within 
Our  tall  barbarian  temples,  and  the  thrones 
That  crowned  Olympus  mighty  as  of  old. 
The  god  of  music  rules  the  Sabbath  choir  ; 
The  lyric  muse  must  leave  the  sacred  nine 
To  help  us  please  the  dilettante's  ear  ; 
Plutus  limps  homeward  with  us,  as  we  leave 
The  portals  of  the  temple  where  we  knelt 
And  listened  while  the  god  of  eloquence 
(Hermes  of  ancient  days,  but  now  disguised 
In  sable  vestments)  with  that  other  god 
Somnus,  the  son  of  Erebus  and  Nox, 
Fights  in  unequal  contest  for  our  souls  ; 
The  dreadful  sovereign  of  the  under  world 
Still  shakes  his  sceptre  at  us,  and  we  hear 
The  baying  of  the  triple-throated  hound  ; 
Eros  is  young  as  ever,  and  as  f air 
The  lovely  Goddess  born  of  ocean's  foam. 

These  be  thy  gods,  O  Israel !     Who  is  he, 
The  one  ye  name  and  tell  us  that  ye  serve, 
Whom  ye  would  call  me  from  my  lonely  tower 
To  worship  with  the  many-headed  throng  ? 
Is  it  the  God  that  walked  in  Eden's  grove 
In  the  cool  hour  to  seek  our  guilty  sire  ? 
The  God  who  dealt  with  Abraham  as  the  sons 
Of  that  old  patriarch  deal  with  other  men  ? 
The  jealous  God  of  Moses,  one  who  feels 
An  image  as  an  insult,  and  is  wroth 
With  him  who  made  it  and  his  child  unborn  ? 
The  God  who  plagued  his  people  for  the  sin 
Of  their  adulterous  king,  beloved  of  him, — 
The  same  who  offers  to  a  chosen  few 
The  right  to  praise  him  in  eternal  song 
While  a  vast  shrieking  world  of  endless  woe 
Blends  its  dread  chorus  with  their  rapturous  hymn  ? 
Is  this  the  God  ye  mean,  or  is  it  he 
Who  heeds  the  sparrow's  fall,  whose  loving  heart 
Is  as  the  pitying  father's  to  his  child, 


232    THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

Whose  lesson  to  his  children  is,  "  Forgive," 

Whose  plea  for  all,  "  They  know  not  what  they  do"  ? 

I  claim  the  right  of  knowing  whom  I  serve, 
Else  is  my  service  idle;  He  that  asks 
My  homage  asks  it  from  a  reasoning  soul. 
To  crawl  is  not  to  worship;  we  have  learned 
A  drill  of  eyelids,  bended  neck  and  knee, 
Hanging  our  prayers  on  hinges,  till  we  ape 
The  flexures  of  the  many-jointed  worm. 
Asia  has  taught  her  Allans  and  salaams 
To  the  world's  children,  —  we  have  grown  to  men  ! 
We  who  have  rolled  the  sphere  beneath  our  feet 
To  find  a  virgin  forest,  as  we  lay 
The  beams  of  our  rude  temple,  first  of  all 
Must  frame  its  doorway  high  enough  for  man 
To  pass  unstooping  ;  knowing  as  we  do 
That  He  who  shaped  us  last  of  living  forms 
Has  long  enough  been  served  by  creeping  things, 
Reptiles  that  left  their  foot-prints  in  the  sand 
Of  old  sea-margins  that  have  turned  to  stone, 
And  men  who  learned  their  ritual;  we  demand 
To  know  him  first,  then  trust  him  and  then  love 
When  we  have  found  him  worthy  of  our  love, 
Tried  by  our  own  poor  hearts  and  not  before; 
He  must  be  truer  than  the  truest  friend, 
He  must  be  tenderer  than  a  woman's  love, 
A  father  better  than  the  best  of  sires  ; 
Kinder  than  she  who  bore  us,  though  we  sin 
Oftener  than  did  the  brother  we  are  told, 
We  — poor  ill-tempered  mortals  — must  forgive, 
Though  seven  times  sinning  threescore  times  and  ten. 

This  is  the  new  world's  gospel :  Be  ye  men  ! 
Try  well  the  legends  of  the  children's  time; 
Ye  are  the  chosen  people,  God  has  led 
Your  steps  across  the  desert  of  the  deep 
As  now  across  the  desert  of  the  shore  ; 
Mountains  are  cleft  before  you  as  the  sea 
Before  the  wandering  tribe  of  Israel's  sons  ; 
Still  onward  rolls  the  thunderous  caravan, 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.    233 

Its  coming  printed  on  the  western  sky, 
A  cloud  by  day,  by  night  a  pillared  flame; 
Your  prophets  are  a  hundred  unto  one 
Of  them  of  old  who  cried,  "  Thus  saith  the  Lord  "  ; 
They  told  of  cities  that  should  fall  in  heaps, 
But  yours  of  mightier  cities  that  shall  rise 
Where  yet  the  lonely  fishers  spread  their  nets, 
Where  hides  the  fox  and  hoots  the  midnight  owl; 
The  tree  of  knowledge  in  your  garden  grows 
Not  single,  but  at  every  humble  door  ; 
Its  branches  lend  you  their  immortal  food, 
That  fills  you  with  the  sense  of  what  ye  are, 
No  servants  of  an  altar  hewed  and  carved 
From  senseless  stone  by  craft  of  human  hands, 
Rabbi,  or  dervish,  brahmin,  bishop,  bonze, 
But  masters  of  the  charm  with  which  they  work 
To  keep  your  hands  from  that  forbidden  tree  I 

Ye  that  have  tasted  that  divinest  fruit, 
Look  on  this  world  of  yours  with  opened  eyes  ! 
Ye  are  as  gods  !     Nay,  makers  of  your  gods,  — 
Each  day  ye  break  an  image  in  your  shrine 
And  plant  a  fairer  image  where  it  stood : 
Where  is  the  Moloch  of  your  fathers'  creed, 
Whose  fires  of  torment  burned  for  span-long  babes  ? 
Fit  object  for  a  tender  mother's  love  ! 
Why  not  ?     It  was  a  bargain  duly  made 
For  these  same  infants  through  the  surety's  act 
Intrusted  with  their  all  for  earth  and  heaven, 
By  Him  who  chose  their  guardian,  knowing  well 
His  fitness  for  the  task,  —  this,  even  this, 
Was  the  true  doctrine  only  yesterday 
As  thoughts  are  reckoned,  —  and  to-day  you  hear 
In  words  that  sound  as  if  from  human  tongues 
Those  monstrous,  uncouth  horrors  of  the  past 
That  blot  the  blue  of  heaven  and  shame  the  earth 
As  would  the  saurians  of  the  age  of  slime, 
Awaking  from  their  stony  sepulchres 
And  wallowing  hateful  in  the  eye  of  day  ! 

Four  of  us  listened  to  these  lines  as  the  young  man 


234     THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

read  them,  —  the  Master  and  myself  and  our  two 
ladies.  This  was  the  little  party  we  got  up  to  hear 
him  read.  I  do  not  think  much  of  it  was  very  new 
to  the  Master  or  myself.  At  any  rate,  he  said  to  me 
when  we  were  alone,  — 

That  is  the  kind  of  talk  the  "natural  man,"  as  the 
theologians  call  him,  is  apt  to  fall  into. 

—  I  thought  it  was  the  Apostle  Paul,  and  not  the 
theologians,  that  used  the  term  "natural  man,"  —  I 
ventured  to  suggest. 

—  I  should  like  to  know  where  the  Apostle  Paul 
learned  English?  —  said  the  Master,  with  the  look  of 
one  who  does  not  mean  to  be  tripped  up  if  he  can  help 
himself.  —  But    at   any  rate,  —  he    continued,  —  the 
"natural  man,"  so  called,  is  worth  listening  to  now 
and  then,  for  he  didn't  make  his  nature,  and  the 
Devil  did  n't  make  it ;  and  if  the  Almighty  made  it, 
I  never  saw  or  heard  of  anything  he  made  that  was  n't 
worth  attending  to. 

The  young  man  begged  the  Lady  to  pardon  any- 
thing that  might  sound  harshly  in  these  crude  thoughts 
of  his.  He  had  been  taught  strange  things,  he  said, 
from  old  theologies,  when  he  was  a  child,  and  had 
thought  his  way  out  of  many  of  his  early  superstitions. 
As  for  the  Young  Girl,  our  Scheherezade,  he  said  to 
her  that  she  must  have  got  dreadfully  tired  (at  which 
she  colored  up  and  said  it  was  no  such  thing),  and  he 
promised  that,  to  pay  for  her  goodness  in  listening, 
he  would  give  her  a  lesson  in  astronomy  the  next  fair 
evening,  if  she  would  be  his  scholar,  at  which  she 
blushed  deeper  than  before,  and  said  something  which 
certainly  was  not  No. 


THE   POET   AT  THE   BREAKFAST-TABLE.          235 


IX. 

There  was  no  sooner  a  vacancy  on  our  side  of  the 
table,  than  the  Master  proposed  a  change  of  seats 
which  would  bring  the  Young  Astronomer  into  our 
immediate  neighborhood.  The  Scarabee  was  to  move 
into  the  place  of  our  late  unlamented  associate,  the 
Man  of  Letters,  so  called.  I  was  to  take  his  place, 
the  Master  to  take  mine,  and  the  young  man  that 
which  had  been  occupied  by  the  Master.  The  advan- 
tages of  this  change  were  obvious.  The  old  Master 
likes  an  audience,  plainly  enough;  and  with  myself 
on  one  side  of  him,  and  the  young  student  of  science, 
whose  speculative  turn  is  sufficiently  shown  in  the 
passages  from  his  poem,  on  the  other  side,  he  may 
feel  quite  sure  of  being  listened  to.  There  is  only 
one  trouble  in  the  arrangement,  and  that  is  that  it 
brings  this  young  man  not  only  close  to  us,  but  also 
next  to  our  Scheherezade. 

I  am  obliged  to  confess  that  he  has  shown  occa- 
sional marks  of  inattention  even  while  the  Master  was 
discoursing  in  a  way  that  I  found  agreeable  enough. 
I  am  quite  sure  it  is  no  intentional  disrespect  to  the 
old  Master.  It  seems  to  me  rather  that  he  has  be- 
come interested  in  the  astronomical  lessons  he  has 
been  giving  the  Young  Girl.  He  has  studied  so  much 
alone,  that  it  is  naturally  a  pleasure  to  him  to  impart 
some  of  his  knowledge.  As  for  his  young  pupil,  she 
has  often  thought  of  being  a  teacher  herself,  so  that 
she  is  of  course  very  glad  to  acquire  any  accomplish- 
ment that  may  be  useful  to  her  in  that  capacity.  I 
do  not  see  any  reason  why  some  of  the  boarders  should 
have  made  such  remarks  as  they  have  done.  One 


236    THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

cannot  teach  astronomy  to  advantage,  without  going 
out  of  doors,  though  I  confess  that  when  two  young 
people  go  out  by  daylight  to  study  the  stars,  as  these 
young  folks  have  done  once  or  twice,  I  do  not  so  much 
wonder  at  a  remark  or  suggestion  from  those  who 
have  nothing  better  to  do  than  study  their  neighbors. 

I  ought  to  have  told  the  reader  before  this  that  I 
found,  as  I  suspected,  that  our  innocent-looking  Sche- 
herezade  was  at  the  bottom  of  the  popgun  business. 
I  watched  her  very  closely,  and  one  day,  when  the 
little  monkey  made  us  all  laugh  by  stopping  the  Mem- 
ber of  the  Haouse  in  the  middle  of  a  speech  he  was 
repeating  to  us,  —  it  was  his  great  effort  of  the  season 
on  a  bill  for  the  protection  of  horn-pout  in  Little 
Muddy  River,  —  I  caught  her  making  the  signs  that 
set  him  going.  At  a  slight  tap  of  her  knife  against 
her  plate,  he  got  all  ready,  and  presently  I  saw  her 
cross  her  knife  and  fork  upon  her  plate,  and  as  she 
did  so,  pop !  went  the  small  piece  of  artillery.  The 
Member  of  the  Haouse  was  just  saying  that  this  bill 
hit  his  constitooents  in  their  most  vital  —  when  a  pel- 
let hit  him  in  the  feature  of  his  countenance  most 
exposed  to  aggressions  and  least  tolerant  of  liberties. 
The  Member  resented  this  unparliamentary  treatment 
by  jumping  up  from  his  chair  and  giving  the  small 
aggressor  a  good  shaking,  at  the  same  time  seizing  the 
implement  which  had  caused  his  wrath  and  breaking 
it  into  splinters.  The  Boy  blubbered,  the  Young 
Girl  changed  color,  and  looked  as  if  she  would  cry, 
and  that  was  the  last  of  these  interruptions. 

I  must  own  that  I  have  sometimes  wished  we  had 
the  popgun  back,  for  it  answered  all  the  purpose  of 
"the  previous  question  "in  a  deliberative  assembly. 
No  doubt  the  Young  Girl  was  capricious  in  setting 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.    237 

the  little  engine  at  work,  but  she  cut  short  a  good 
many  disquisitions  that  threatened  to  be  tedious.  I 
find  myself  often  wishing  for  her  and  her  small  fellow- 
conspirator's  intervention,  in  company  where  I  am 
supposed  to  be  enjoying  myself.  When  my  friend  the 
politician  gets  too  far  into  the  personal  details  of  the 
quorum  pars  magnafui,  I  find  myself  all  at  once  ex- 
claiming in  mental  articulation,  Popgun  !  When  my 
friend  the  story-teller  begins  that  protracted  narrative 
which  has  often  emptied  me  of  all  my  voluntary 
laughter  for  the  evening,  he  has  got  but  a  very  little 
way  when  I  say  to  myself,  What  would  n't  I  give  for 
a  pellet  from  that  popgun!  In  short,  so  useful  has 
that  trivial  implement  proved  as  a  jaw-stopper  and  a 
boricide,  that  I  never  go  to  a  club  or  a  dinner-party, 
without  wishing  the  company  included  our  Schehere- 
zade  and  That  Boy  with  his  popgun. 

How  clearly  I  see  now  into  the  mechanism  of  the 
Young  Girl's  audacious  contrivance  for  regulating  our 
table-talk !  Her  brain  is  tired  half  the  time,  and  she 
is  too  nervous  to  listen  patiently  to  what  a  quieter 
person  would  like  well  enough,  or  at  least  would  not 
be  annoyed  by.  It  amused  her  to  invent  a  scheme 
for  managing  the  headstrong  talkers,  and  also  let  off 
a  certain  spirit  of  mischief  which  in  some  of  these  ner- 
vous girls  shows  itself  in  much  more  questionable 
forms.  How  cunning  these  half -hysteric  young  per- 
sons are,  to  be  sure !  I  had  to  watch  a  long  time  be- 
fore I  detected  the  telegraphic  communication  between 
the  two  conspirators.  I  have  no  doubt  she  had  sedu- 
lously schooled  the  little  monkey  to  his  business,  and 
found  great  delight  in  the  task  of  instruction. 

But  now  that  our  Scheherezade  has  become  a  scholar 
instead  of  a  teacher,  she  seems  to  be  undergoing  a 


238    THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

remarkable  transformation.  Astronomy  is  indeed  a 
noble  science.  It  may  well  kindle  the  enthusiasm  of 
a  youthful  nature.  I  fancy  at  times  that  I  see  some- 
thing of  that  starry  light  which  I  noticed  in  the 
young  man's  eyes  gradually  kindling  in  hers.  But 
can  it  be  astronomy  alone  that  does  it?  Her  color 
comes  and  goes  more  readily  than  when  the  old  Mas- 
ter sat  next  her  on  the  left.  It  is  having  this  young 
man  at  her  side,  I  suppose.  Of  course  it  is.  I  watch 
her  with  great,  I  may  say  tender  interest.  If  he 
would  only  fall  in  love  with  her,  seize  upon  her  wan- 
dering affections  and  fancies  as  the  Romans  seized  the 
Sabine  virgins,  lift  her  out  of  herself  and  her  listless 
and  weary  drudgeries,  stop  the  outflow  of  this  young 
life  which  is  draining  itself  away  in  forced  literary 
labor  —  dear  me,  dear  me  —  if,  if,  if  — 

"  If  I  were  God 
An*  ye  were  Martin  Elginbrod  !  " 

I  am  afraid  all  this  may  never  be.  I  fear  that  he  is 
too  much  given  to  lonely  study,  to  self -companion- 
ship, to  all  sorts  of  questionings,  to  looking  at  life  as 
at  a  solemn  show  where  he  is  only  a  spectator.  I  dare 
not  build  up  a  romance  on  what  I  have  yet  seen.  My 
reader  may,  but  I  will  answer  for  nothing.  I  shall 
wait  and  see. 

The  old  Master  and  I  have  at  last  made  that  visit 
to  the  Scarabee  which  we  had  so  long  promised  our- 
selves. 

When  we  knocked  at  his  door  he  came  and  opened 
it,  instead  of  saying,  Come  in.  He  was  surprised,  I 
have  no  doubt,  at  the  sound  of  our  footsteps ;  for  he 
rarely  has  a  visitor,  except  the  little  monkey  of  a  boyf 
and  he  may  have  thought  a  troop  of  marauders  were 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.     239 

coming  to  rob  him  of  his  treasures.  Collectors  feel  so 
rich  in  the  possession  of  their  rarer  specimens,  that 
they  forget  how  cheap  their  precious  things  seem  to 
common  eyes,  and  are  as  afraid  of  being  robbed  as  if 
they  were  dealers  in  diamonds.  They  have  the  name 
of  stealing  from  each  other  now  and  then,  it  is  true, 
but  many  of  their  priceless  possessions  would  hardly 
tempt  a  beggar.  Values  are  artificial :  you  will  not 
be  able  to  get  ten  cents  of  the  year  1799  for  a  dime. 

The  Scarabee  was  reassured  as  soon  as  he  saw  our 
faces,  and  he  welcomed  us  not  ungraciously  into  his 
small  apartment.  It  was  hard  to  find  a  place  to  sit 
down,  for  all  the  chairs  were  already  occupied  by 
cases  and  boxes  full  of  his  favorites.  I  began,  there- 
fore, looking  round  the  room.  Bugs  of  every  size 
and  aspect  met  my  eyes  wherever  they  turned.  I  felt 
for  the  moment  as  I  suppose  a  man  may  feel  in  a  fit 
of  delirium  treinens.  Presently  my  attention  was 
drawn  towards  a  very  odd-looking  insect  on  the  man- 
tel-piece. This  animal  was  incessantly  raising  its 
arms  as  if  towards  heaven  and  clasping  them  together, 
as  though  it  were  wrestling  in  prayer. 

Do  look  at  this  creature,  —  I  said  to  the  Master,  — 
he  seems  to  be  very  hard  at  work  at  his  devotions. 

Mantis  religiosa,  —  said  the  Master,  —  I  know  the 
praying  rogue.  Mighty  devout  and  mighty  cruel; 
crushes  everything  he  can  master,  or  impales  it  on  his 
spiny  shanks  and  feeds  upon  it,  like  a  gluttonous 
wretch  as  he  is.  I  have  seen  the  Mantis  religiosa  on 
a  larger  scale  than  this,  now  and  then.  A  sacred  in- 
sect, sir,  —  sacred  to  many  tribes  of  men ;  to  the  Hot- 
tentots, to  the  Turks,  yes,  sir,  and  to  the  Frenchmen, 
who  call  the  rascal  prie  dieu,  and  believe  him  to  have 
special  charge  of  children  that  have  lost  their  way. 


240    THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

Does  n't  it  seem  as  if  there  was  a  vein  of  satire  as 
well  as  of  fun  that  ran  through  the  solemn  manifesta- 
tions of  creative  wisdom?  And  of  deception  too  —  do 
you  see  how  nearly  those  dried  leaves  resemble  an 
insect  ? 

They  do,  indeed,  —  I  answered,  —  but  not  so 
closely  as  to  deceive  me.  They  remind  me  of  an 
insect,  but  I  could  not  mistake  them  for  one. 

—  Oh,  you  couldn't  mistake  those  dried  leaves  for 
an  insect,  hey?  Well,  how  can  you  mistake  that  in- 
sect for  dried  leaves?  That  is  the  question;  for  in- 
sect it  is,  — pliyllum  siccifolium,  the  "walking  leaf," 
as  some  have  called  it.  —  The  Master  had  a  hearty 
laugh  at  my  expense. 

The  Scarabee  did  not  seem  to  be  amused  at  the 
Master's  remarks  or  at  my  blunder.  Science  is  al- 
ways perfectly  serious  to  him ;  and  he  would  no  more 
laugh  over  anything  connected  with  his  study,  than  a 
clergyman  would  laugh  at  a  funeral. 

They  send  me  all  sorts  of  trumpery,  —  he  said,  — 
Orthoptera  and  Lepidoptera ;  as  if  a  coleopterist  —  a 
scarabeeist  —  cared  for  such  things.  This  business  is 
no  boy's  play  to  me.  The  insect  population  of  the 
world  is  not  even  catalogued  yet,  and  a  lifetime  given 
to  the  scarabees  is  a  small  contribution  enough  to  their 
study.  I  like  your  men  of  general  intelligence  well 
enough,  —  your  Linna3uses  and  your  Buffons  and  your 
Cuviers;  but  Cuvier  had  to  go  to  Latreille  for  his 
insects,  and  if  Latreille  had  been  able  to  consult  me, 
—  yes,  me,  gentlemen! — he  wouldn't  have  made  the 
blunders  he  did  about  some  of  the  coleoptera. 

The  old  Master,  as  I  think  you  must  have  found  out 
by  this  time,  —  you,  Beloved,  I  mean,  who  read  every 
word,  —  has  a  reasonably  good  opinion,  as  perhaps  he 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.    241 

has  a  right  to  have,  of  his  own  intelligence  and  ac- 
quirements. The  Scarabee's  exultation  and  glow  as 
he  spoke  of  the  errors  of  the  great  entomologist  which 
he  himself  could  have  corrected,  had  the  effect  on  the 
old  Master  which  a  lusty  crow  has  upon  the  feathered 
champion  of  the  neighboring  barnyard.  He  too  knew 
something  about  insects.  Had  he  not  discovered  a 
new  tabanus  ?  Had  he  not  made  preparations  of  the 
very  coleoptera  the  Scarabee  studied  so  exclusively, 
—  preparations  which  the  illustrious  Swammerdam 
would  not  have  been  ashamed  of,  and  dissected  a  me- 
lolontha  as  exquisitely  as  Strauss  Durckheim  himself 
ever  did  it?  So  the  Master,  recalling  these  studies  of 
his  and  certain  difficult  and  disputed  points  at  which 
he  had  labored  in  one  of  his  entomological  paroxysms, 
put  a  question  which  there  can  be  little  doubt  was  in- 
tended to  puzzle  the  Scarabee,  and  perhaps,  —  for  the 
best  of  us  is  human  (I  am  beginning  to  love  the  old 
Master,  but  he  has  his  little  weaknesses,  thank  Heaven, 
like  the  rest  of  us),  —  I  say  perhaps,  was  meant  to 
show  that  some  folks  knew  as  much  about  some  things 
as  some  other  folks. 

The  little  dried-up  specialist  did  not  dilate  into 
fighting  dimensions  as  —  perhaps,  again  —  the  Master 
may  have  thought  he  would.  He  looked  a  mild  sur- 
prise, but  remained  as  quiet  as  one  of  his  own  beetles 
when  you  touch  him  and  he  makes  believe  he  is  dead 
The  blank  silence  became  oppressive.  Was  the  Scar-; 
abee  crushed,  as  so  many  of  his  namesakes  are  crushed, 
under  the  heel  of  this  trampling  omniscient? 

At  last  the  Scarabee  creaked  out  very  slowly,  "Did 
I  understand  you  to  ask  the  following  question,  to 
wit?  "  and  so  forth;  for  I  was  quite  out  of  my  depth, 
and  only  know  that  he  repeated  the  Master's  some* 
what  complex  inquiry,  word  for  word. 


242    THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

—  That  was  exactly  my  question,  —  said  the  Mas- 
ter,  —  and  I  hope  it  is  not  uncivil  to  ask  one  which 
seems  to  me  to  be  a  puzzler. 

Not  uncivil  in  the  least,  —  said  the  Scarabee,  with 
something  as  much  like  a  look  of  triumph  as  his  dry 
face  permitted,  —  not  uncivil  at  all,  but  a  rather  ex- 
traordinary question  to  ask  at  this  date  of  entomolo- 
gical history.  I  settled  that  question  some  years  ago, 
by  a  series  of  dissections,  six-and-thirty  in  number, 
reported  in  an  essay  I  can  show  you  and  would  give 
you  a  copy  of,  but  that  I  am  a  little  restricted  in  my 
revenue,  and  our  Society  has  to  be  economical,  so  I 
have  but  this  one.  You  see,  sir, —  and  he  went  on 
with  elytra  and  antennae  and  tarsi  and  metatarsi  and 
tracheae  and  stomata  and  wing-muscles  and  leg-mus- 
cles and  ganglions, — all  plain  enough,  I  do  not 
doubt,  to  those  accustomed  to  handling  dor-bugs  and 
squash-bugs  and  such  undesirable  objects  of  affection 
to  all  but  naturalists. 

He  paused  when  he  got  through,  not  for  an  answer, 
for  there  evidently  was  none,  but  to  see  how  the  Mas- 
ter would  take  it.  The  Scarabee  had  had  it  all  his 
own  way. 

The  Master  was  loyal  to  his  own  generous  nature. 
He  felt  as  a  peaceful  citizen  might  feel  who  had 
squared  off  at  a  stranger  for  some  supposed  wrong, 
and  suddenly  discovered  that  he  was  undertaking  to 
chastise  Mr.  Dick  Curtis,  "the  pet  of  the  Fancy,"  or 
Mr.  Joshua  Hudson,  "the  John  Bull  fighter." 

He  felt  the  absurdity  of  his  discomfiture,  for  he 
turned  to  me  good-naturedly,  and  said, — 

"  Poor  Johnny  Raw  !     What  madness  could  impel 
So  rum  a  flat  to  face  so  prime  a  swell  ?  " 

To  tell  the  truth,  I  rather  think  the  Master  enjoyed 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.    243 

his  own  defeat.  The  Scarabee  had  a  right  to  his  vic- 
tory; a  man  does  not  give  his  life  to  the  study  of  a 
single  limited  subject  for  nothing,  and  the  moment  we 
come  across  a  first-class  expert  we  begin  to  take  a 
pride  in  his  superiority.  It  cannot  offend  us,  who 
have  no  right  at  all  to  be  his  match  on  his  own  ground. 
Besides,  there  is  a  very  curious  sense  of  satisfaction 
in  getting  a  fair  chance  to  sneer  at  ourselves  and  scoff 
at  our  own  pretensions.  The  first  person  of  our  dual 
consciousness  has  been  smirking  and  rubbing  his  hands 
and  felicitating  himself  on  his  innumerable  superior- 
ities, until  we  have  grown  a  little  tired  of  him.  Then, 
when  the  other  fellow,  the  critic,  the  cynic,  the  Shi- 
mei,  who  has  been  quiet,  letting  self-love  and  self- 
glorification  have  their  perfect  work,  opens  fire  upon 
the  first  half  of  our  personality  and  overwhelms  it 
with  that  wonderful  vocabulary  of  abuse  of  which  he 
is  the  unrivalled  master,  there  is  no  denying  that  he 
enjoys  it  immensely;  and  as  he  is  ourself  for  the  mo- 
ment, or  at  least  the  chief  portion  of  ourself  (the  other 
half -self  retiring  into  a  dim  corner  of  semiconscious- 
ness  and  cowering  under  the  storm  of  sneers  and  con- 
tumely, —  you  follow  me  perfectly,  Beloved,  —  the 
way  is  as  plain  as  the  path  of  the  babe  to  the  mater- 
nal fount),  as,  I  say,  the  abusive  fellow  is  the  chief 
part  of  us  for  the  time,  and  he  likes  to  exercise  his 
slanderous  vocabulary,  we  on  the  whole  enjoy  a  brief 
season  of  self-depreciation  and  self-scolding  very 
heartily. 

It  is  quite  certain  that  both  of  us,  the  Master  and 
myself,  conceived  on  the  instant  a  respect  for  the 
Scarabee  which  we  had  not  before  felt.  He  had  grap- 
pled with  one  difficulty  at  any  rate  and  mastered  it. 
He  had  settled  one  thing,  at  least,  so  it  appeared,  in 


244    THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

such  a  way  that  it  was  not  to  be  brought  up  again. 
And  now  he  was  determined,  if  it  cost  him  the  effort 
of  all  his  remaining  days,  to  close  another  discussion 
and  put  forever  to  rest  the  anxious  doubts  about  the 
larva  of  meloe. 

—  Your  thirty-six  dissections  must  have  cost  you  a 
deal  of  time  and  labor,  —  the  Master  said. 

—  What  have  I  to  do  with  time,  but  to  fill  it  up 
with    labor  ?  —  answered  the    Scarabee.  —  It  is   my 
meat  and  drink  to  work  over  my  beetles.     My  holi- 
days are  when  I  get  a  rare  specimen.     My  rest  is  to 
watch  the  habits  of   insects,  —  those  that  I  do  not 
pretend  to  study.     Here  is  my  muscarium,  my  home 
for  house-flies ;  very  interesting  creatures ;  here  they 
breed  and  buzz  and  feed  and  enjoy  themselves,  and 
die  in  a  good  old  age  of  a  few  months.     My  favorite 
insect  lives  in  this  other  case ;  she  is  at  home,  but  in 
her  private-chamber;  you  shall  see  her. 

He  tapped  on  the  glass  lightly,  and  a  large,  gray, 
hairy  spider  came  forth  from  the  hollow  of  a  funnel- 
like  web. 

—  And  this  is  all  the  friend  you  have  to  love  ?  — 
said  the  Master,  with  a  tenderness  in  his  voice  which 
made  the  question  very  significant. 

—  Nothing  else  loves  me  better  than  she  does,  that 
I  know  of,  —  he  answered. 

—  To  think  of   it !     Not  even  a  dog  to  lick  his 
hand,  or  a  cat  to  purr  and  rub  her  fur  against  him  I 
Oh,  these   boarding-houses,    these    boarding-houses! 
What  forlorn  people  one  sees  stranded  on  their  deso« 
late    shores!     Decayed  gentlewomen   with   the   poor 
wrecks  of  what  once  made  their  households  beautiful, 
disposed  around  them  in  narrow  chambers  as  they 
best  may  be,  coming  down  day  after  day,  poor  souls) 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.    245 

to  sit  at  the  board  with  strangers;  their  hearts  full 
of  sad  memories  which  have  no  language  but  a  sigh, 
no  record  but  the  lines  of  sorrow  on  their  features; 
orphans,  creatures  with  growing  tendrils  and  nothing 
to  cling  to ;  lonely  rich  men,  casting  about  them  what 
to  do  with  the  wealth  they  never  knew  how  to  enjoy, 
when  they  shall  no  longer  worry  over  keeping  and  in- 
creasing it;  young  men  and  young  women,  left  to 
their  instincts,  unguarded,  unwatched,  save  by  mali- 
cious eyes,  which  are  sure  to  be  found  and  to  find  oc- 
cupation in  these  miscellaneous  collections  of  human 
beings ;  and  now  and  then  a  shred  of  humanity  like 
this  little  adust  specialist,  with  just  the  resources 
needed  to  keep  the  "radical  moisture"  from  entirely 
exhaling  from  his  attenuated  organism,  and  busying 
himself  over  a  point  of  science,  or  compiling  a  hymn- 
book,  or  editing  a  grammar  or  a  dictionary ;  —  such 
are  the  tenants  of  boarding-houses  whom  we  cannot 
think  of  without  feeling  how  sad  it  is  when  the  wind 
is  not  tempered  to  the  shorn  lamb ;  when  the  solitary, 
whose  hearts  are  shrivelling,  are  not  set  in  families ! 

The  Master  was  greatly  interested  in  the  Scara- 
bee's  Muscarium. 

—  I  don't  remember, — he  said, — that  I  have 
heard  of  such  a  thing  as  that  before.  Mighty  curious 
creatures,  these  same  house-flies!  Talk  about  mira- 
cles !  Was  there  ever  anything  more  miraculous,  so 
far  as  our  common  observation  goes,  than  the  coming 
and  the  going  of  these  creatures?  Why  did  n't  Job 
ask  where  the  flies  come  from  and  where  they  go  to? 
I  did  not  say  that  you  and  I  don't  know,  but  how 
many  people  do  know  anything  about  it?  Where  are 
the  cradles  of  the  young  flies?  Where  are  the  ceme- 
teries of  the  dead  ones,  or  do  they  die  at  all  except 


246     THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

when  we  kill  them  ?  You  think  all  the  flies  of  the 
year  are  dead  and  gone,  and  there  comes  a  warm  day 
and  all  at  once  there  is  a  general  resurrection  of  'em; 
they  had  been  taking  a  nap,  that  is  all. 

—  I  suppose  you  do  not  trust  your  spider  in  the 
Muscarium  ?  —  said  I,  addressing  the  Scarabee. 

—  Not  exactly,  —  he  answered,  —  she  is  a  terrible 
creature.     She  loves  me,  I  think,  but  she  is  a  killer 
and  a  cannibal  among  other    insects.     I  wanted  to 
pair  her  with  a  male  spider,  but  it  would  n't  do. 

—  Wouldn't    do?  —  said   I, — why    not?     Don't 
spiders  have  their  mates  as  well  as  other  folks? 

—  Oh  yes,  sometimes ;  but  the  females  are  apt  to  be 
particular,  and  if  they  don't  like  the  mate  you  offer 
them  they  fall  upon  him  and  kill  him  and  eat  him  up. 
You  see  they  are  a  great  deal  bigger  and  stronger 
than  the  males,  and  they  are  always  hungry  and  not 
always  particularly  anxious  to  have  one  of  the  other 
sex  bothering  round. 

—  Woman's  rights !  —  said  I,  —  there  you  have  it ! 
Why  don't  those  talking  ladies  take  a  spider  as  their 
emblem  ?     Let  them  form  arachnoid  associations,  — 
spinsters  and  spiders  would  be  a  good  motto. 

—  The  Master  smiled.     I  think  it  was  an  eleemosy- 
nary smile,  for  my  pleasantry  seems  to  me  a  particu- 
larly basso  rilievo,  as  I  look  upon  it  in  cold  blood. 
But  conversation  at  the  best  is  only  a  thin  sprinkling 
of  occasional  felicities  set  in  platitudes  and  common- 
places.    I  never  heard  people  talk  like  the  characters 
in  the  "School  for  Scandal,"  —  I  should  very  much 
like  to.  —  I  say  the  Master  smiled.     But  the  Scarabee 
did  not  relax  a  muscle  of  his  countenance. 

—  There   are  persons  whom   the  very  mildest  of 
Jacetice  sets  off  into  such  convulsions  of  laughter,  that 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.    247 

one  is  afraid  lest  they  should  injure  themselves. 
Even  when  a  jest  misses  fire  completely,  so  that  it  is 
no  jest  at  all,  but  only  a  jocular  intention,  they  laugh 
just  as  heartily.  Leave  out  the  point  of  your  story, 
get  the  word  wrong  on  the  duplicity  of  which  the  pun 
that  was  to  excite  hilarity  depended,  and  they  still 
honor  your  abortive  attempt  with  the  most  lusty  and 
vociferous  merriment. 

There  is  a  very  opposite  class  of  persons  whom  any- 
thing in  the  nature  of  a  joke  perplexes,  troubles,  and 
even  sometimes  irritates,  seeming  to  make  them 
think  they  are  trifled  with,  if  not  insulted.  If  you 
are  fortunate  enough  to  set  the  whole  table  laughing, 
one  of  this  class  of  persons  will  look  inquiringly 
round,  as  if  something  had  happened,  and,  seeing 
everybody  apparently  amused  but  himself,  feel  as  if 
he  was  being  laughed  at,  or  at  any  rate  as  if  some- 
thing had  been  said  which  he  was  not  to  hear.  Often, 
however,  it  does  not  go  so  far  as  this,  and  there  is 
nothing  more  than  mere  insensibility  to  the  cause  of 
other  people's  laughter,  a  sort  of  joke-blindness,  com- 
parable to  the  well-known  color-blindness  with  which 
many  persons  are  afflicted  as  a  congenital  incapacity. 

I  have  never  seen  the  Scarabee  smile.  I  have  seen 
him  take  off  his  goggles,  —  he  breakfasts  in  these 
occasionally,  —  I  suppose  when  he  has  been  tiring 
his  poor  old  eyes  out  over  night  gazing  through  his 
microscope,  —  I  have  seen  him  take  his  goggles  off, 
I  say,  and  stare  about  him,  when  the  rest  of  us  were 
laughing  at  something  which  amused  us,  but  his  fea- 
tures betrayed  nothing  more  than  a  certain  bewilder- 
ment, as  if  we  had  been  foreigners  talking  in  an  un- 
known tongue.  I  do  not  think  it  was  a  mere  fancy 
of  mine  that  he  bears  a  kind  of  resemblance  to  the 


248     THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

tribe  of  insects  he  gives  his  life  to  studying.  His 
shiny  black  coat;  his  rounded  back,  convex  with 
years  of  stooping  over  his  minute  work;  his  angular 
movements,  made  natural  to  him  by  his  habitual 
style  of  manipulation;  the  aridity  of  his  organism, 
with  which  his  voice  is  in  perfect  keeping;  —  all 
these  marks  of  his  special  sedentary  occupation  are 
so  nearly  what  might  be  expected,  and  indeed  so  much 
in  accordance  with  the  more  general  fact  that  a  man's 
aspect  is  subdued  to  the  look  of  what  he  works  in, 
that  I  do  not  feel  disposed  to  accuse  myself  of  exag- 
geration in  my  account  of  the  Scarabee's  appearance. 
But  I  think  he  has  learned  something  else  of  his  co- 
leopterous friends.  The  beetles  never  smile.  Their 
physiognomy  is  not  adapted  to  the  display  of  the 
emotions;  the  lateral  movement  of  their  jaws  being 
effective  for  alimentary  purposes,  but  very  limited  in 
its  gamut  of  expression.  It  is  with  these  unemotional 
beings  that  the  Scarabee  passes  his  life.  He  has  but 
one  object,  and  that  is  perfectly  serious,  to  his  mind, 
in  fact,  of  absorbing  interest  and  importance.  In 
one  aspect  of  the  matter  he  is  quite  right,  for  if  the 
Creator  has  taken  the  trouble  to  make  one  of  His  crea- 
tures in  just  such  a  way  and  not  otherwise,  from  the 
beginning  of  its  existence  on  our  planet  in  ages  of  un- 
known remoteness  to  the  present  time,  the  man  who 
first  explains  His  idea  to  us  is  charged  with  a  revela- 
tion. It  is  by  no  means  impossible  that  there  may  be 
angels  in  the  celestial  hierarchy  to  whom  it  would  be 
new  and  interesting.  I  have  often  thought  that  spirits 
of  a  higher  order  than  man  might  be  willing  to  learn 
something  from  a  human  mind  like  that  of  Newton, 
and  I  see  no  reason  why  an  angelic  being  might  not 
be  glad  to  hear  a  lecture  from  Mr.  Huxley,  or  Mr. 
Tyndall,  or  one  of  our  friends  at  Cambridge. 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.     249 

I  have  been  sinuous  as  the  Links  of  Forth  seen 
from  Stirling  Castle,  or  as  that  other  river  which 
threads  the  Berkshire  valley  and  runs,  a  perennial 
stream,  through  my  memory,  —  from  which  I  please 
myself  with  thinking  that  I  have  learned  to  wind 
without  fretting  against  the  shore,  or  forgetting 
where  I  am  flowing,  —  sinuous,  I  say,  but  not  jerky, 
—  no,  not  jerky  nor  hard  to  follow  for  a  reader  of  the 
right  sort,  in  the  prime  of  life  and  full  possession  of 
his  or  her  faculties. 

—  All  this  last  page  or  so,  you  readily  understand, 
has  been  my  private  talk  with  you,  the  Reader.     The 
cue  of  the  conversation  which  I  interrupted  by  this 
digression  is  to  be  found  in  the  words  "a  good  motto," 
from  which  I  begin  my  acccount  of  the  visit  again. 

—  Do  you  receive  many  visitors,  —  I  mean  verte- 
brates, not  articulates  ?  —  said  the  Master. 

I  thought  this  question  might  perhaps  bring  il  disir 
ato  riso,  the  long-wished-for  smile,  but  the  Scarabee 
interpreted  it  in  the  simplest  zoological  sense,  and 
neglected  its  hint  of  playfulness  with  the  most  abso- 
lute unconsciousness,  apparently,  of  anything  not  en- 
tirely serious  and  literal. 

—  You  mean  friends,  I  suppose,  —  he  answered.  — 
I  have  correspondents,  but  I  have  no  friends  except 
this  spider.     I  live  alone,  except  when  I  go  to  my 
subsection  meetings ;  I  get  a  box  of  insects  now  and 
then,  and  send  a  few  beetles  to  coleopterists  in  other 
entomological  districts;  but  science  is  exacting,  and 
a  man  that  wants  to  leave  his  record  has  not  much 
time  for  friendship.     There  is  no  great  chance  either 
for  making  friends  among  naturalists.     People  that 
are  at  work  on  different  things  do  not  care  a  great 


250    THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

deal  for  each  other's  specialties,  and  people  that  work 
on  the  same  thing  are  always  afraid  lest  one  should 
get  ahead  of  the  other,  or  steal  some  of  his  ideas  be- 
fore he  has  made  them  public.  There  are  none  too 
many  people  you  can  trust  in  your  laboratory.  I 
thought  I  had  a  friend  once,  but  he  watched  me  at 
work  and  stole  the  discovery  of  a  new  species  from 
me,  and,  what  is  more,  had  it  named  after  himself. 
Since  that  time  I  have  liked  spiders  better  than  men. 
They  are  hungry  and  savage,  but  at  any  rate  they 
spin  their  own  webs  out  of  their  own  insides.  I  like 
very  well  to  talk  with  gentlemen  that  play  with  my 
branch  of  entomology ;  I  do  not  doubt  it  amused  you, 
and  if  you  want  to  see  anything  I  can  show  you,  I 
shall  have  no  scruple  in  letting  you  see  it.  I  have 
never  had  any  complaint  to  make  of  amatoors. 

—  Upon  my  honor,  —  I  would  hold  my  right  hand 
up  and  take  my  Bible-oath,  if  it  was  not  busy  with 
the  pen  at  this  moment,  —  I  do  not  believe  the  Scar- 
abee  had  the  least  idea  in  the  world  of  the  satire  on 
the  student  of  the  Order  of  Things  implied  in  his 
invitation  to  the  "amatoor."  As  for  the  Master,  he 
stood  fire  perfectly,  as  he  always  does ;  but  the  idea 
that  he,  who  had  worked  a  considerable  part  of  several 
seasons  at  examining  and  preparing  insects,  who  be- 
lieved himself  to  nave  given  a  new  tabanus  to  the  cat- 
alogue of  native  diptera,  the  idea  that  lie  was  playing 
with  science,  and  might  be  trusted  anywhere  as  a 
harmless  amateur,  from  whom  no  expert  could  possi- 
bly fear  any  anticipation  of  his  unpublished  discov- 
eries, went  beyond  anything  set  down  in  that  book  of 
his  which  contained  so  much  of  the  strainings  of  his 
wisdom. 

The   poor   little    Scarabee   began   fidgeting  round 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.    261 

about  this  time,  and  uttering  some  half -audible  words, 
apologetical,  partly,  and  involving  an  allusion  to  re- 
freshments. As  he  spoke,  he  opened  a  small  cup- 
board, and  as  he  did  so  out  bolted  an  uninvited  ten- 
ant of  the  same,  long  in  person,  sable  in  hue,  and  swift 
of  movement,  on  seeing  which  the  Scarabee  simply 
said,  without  emotion,  blatta,  but  I,  forgetting  what 
was  due  to  good  manners,  exclaimed  cockroach  ! 

We  could  not  make  up  our  minds  to  tax  the  Scara- 
bee's  hospitality,  already  levied  upon  by  the  voracious 
articulate.  So  we  both  alleged  a  state  of  utter  reple- 
tion, and  did  not  solve  the  mystery  of  the  contents  of 
the  cupboard,  —  not  too  luxurious,  it  may  be  conjec- 
tured, and  yet  kindly  offered,  so  that  we  felt  there  was 
a  moist  filament  of  the  social  instinct  running  like  a, 
nerve  through  that  exsiccatecj  and  almost  anhydrous 
organism. 

We  left  him  with  professions  of  esteem  and  respect 
which  were  real.  We  had  gone,  not  to  scoff,  but  very 
probably  to  smile,  and  I  will  not  say  we  did  not. 
But  the  Master  was  more  thoughtful  than  usual. 

—  If  I  had  not  solemnly  dedicated  myself  to  the 
study  of  the  Order  of  Things,  —  he  said,  —  I  do  ver- 
ily believe  I  would  give  what  remains  to  me  of  life  to 
the  investigation  of  some  single  point  I  could  utterly 
eviscerate  and  leave  finally  settled  for  the  instruction 
and,  it  may  be,  the  admiration  of  all  coming  time. 
The  keel  ploughs  ten  thousand  leagues  of  ocean  and 
leaves  no  trace  of  its  deep-graven  furrows.  The 
chisel  scars  only  a  few  inches  on  the  face  of  a  rock, 
but  the  story  it  has  traced  is  read  by  a  hundred  gen- 
erations. The  eagle  leaves  no  track  of  his  path,  no 
memory  of  the  place  where  he  built  his  nest;  but  a 
patient  mollusk  has  bored  a  little  hole  in  a  marble 


252    THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

column  of  the  temple  of  Serapis,  and  the  monument 
of  his  labor  outlasts  the  altar  and  the  statue  of  the 
divinity. 

—  Whew !  —  said  I  to  myself,  —  that  sounds  a  little 
like  what  we  college  boys  used  to  call  a  "squirt."  — 
The  Master  guessed  my  thought  and  said,  smiling, 

—  That  is  from  one  of  my  old  lectures.     A  man's 
tongue  wags  along  quietly  enough,  but  his  pen  begins 
prancing  as  soon  as  it  touches  paper.     I  know  what 
you  are  thinking  —  you  're  thinking  this  is  a  squirt. 
That  word  has   taken  the    nonsense  out  of    a  good 
many  high-stepping  fellows.     But  it  did  a  good  deal 
of  harm  too,  and  it  was  a  vulgar  lot  that  applied  it 
oftenest. 

I  am  at  last  perfectly  satisfied  that  our  Landlady 
has  no  designs  on  the  Capitalist,  and  as  well  con- 
vinced that  any  fancy  of  mine  that  he  was  like  to 
make  love  to  her  was  a  mistake.  The  good  woman 
is  too  much  absorbed  in  her  children,  and  more  espe- 
cially in  "the  Doctor,"  as  she  delights  to  call  her  son, 
to  be  the  prey  of  any  foolish  desire  of  changing  her 
condition.  She  is  doing  very  well  as  it  is,  and  if  the 
young  man  succeeds,  as  I  have  little  question  that  he 
will,  I  think  it  probable  enough  that  she  will  retire 
from  her  position  as  the  head  of  a  boarding-house. 
We  have  all  liked  the  good  woman  who  have  lived 
with  her,  —  I  .mean  we  three  friends  who  have  put 
ourselves  on  record.  Her  talk,  I  must  confess,  is  a 
little  diffuse  and  not  always  absolutely  correct,  ac- 
cording to  the  standard  of  the  great  Worcester ;  she 
is  subject  to  lachrymose  cataclysms  and  semiconvul- 
sive  upheavals  when  she  reverts  in  memory  to  her  past 
trials,  and  especially  when  she  recalls  the  virtues  of 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.     253 

her  deceased  spouse,  who  was,  I  suspect,  an  adjunct 
such  as  one  finds  not  rarely  annexed  to  a  capable 
matron  in  charge  of  an  establishment  like  hers ;  that 
is  to  say,  an  easy-going,  harmless,  fetch-and-carry, 
carve-and-help,  get-out-of-the-way  kind  of  neuter, 
who  comes  up  three  times  (as  they  say  drowning  peo 
pie  do)  every  day,  namely,  at  breakfast,  dinner,  and 
tea,  and  disappears,  submerged  beneath  the  waves  of 
life,  during  the  intervals  of  these  events. 

It  is  a  source  of  genuine  delight  to  me,  who  am  of 
a  kindly  nature  enough,  according  to  my  own  reck 
oning,  to  watch  the  good  woman,  and  see  what  looks 
of  pride  and  affection  she  bestows  upon  her  Benjamin, 
and  how,  in  spite  of  herself,  the  maternal  feeling  be- 
trays its  influence  in  her  dispensations  of  those  delica- 
cies which  are  the  exceptional  element  in  our  enter- 
tainments. I  will  not  say  that  Benjamin's  mess,  like 
his  Scripture  namesake's,  is  five  times  as  large  as 
that  of  any  of  the  others,  for  this  would  imply  either 
an  economical  distribution  to  the  guests  in  general  or 
heaping  the  poor  young  man's  plate  in  a  way  that 
would  spoil  the  appetite  of  an  Esquimau,  but  you  may 
be  sure  he  fares  well  if  anybody  does ;  and  I  would 
have  you  understand  that  our  Landlady  knows  what 
is  what  as  well  as  who  is  who. 

I  begin  really  to  entertain  very  sanguine  expecta- 
tions of  young  Doctor  Benjamin  Franklin.  He  has 
lately  been  treating  a  patient  T./hose  good-will  may 
prove  of  great  importance  to  him.  The  Capitalist 
hurt  one  of  his  fingers  somehow  or  other,  and  re- 
quested our  young  doctor  to  take  a  look  at  it.  The 
young  doctor  asked  nothing  better  than  to  take  charge 
of  the  case,  which  proved  more  serious  than  might 
have  been  at  first  expected,  and  kept  him  in  atten- 


254     THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

dance  more  than  a  week.  There  was  one  very  odd 
thing  about  it.  The  Capitalist  seemed  to  have  an 
idea  that  he  was  like  to  be  ruined  in  the  matter  of 
bandages,  —  small  strips  of  worn  linen  which  any  old 
woman  could  have  spared  him  from  her  rag-bag,  but 
which,  with  that  strange  perversity  which  long  habits 
of  economy  give  to  a  good  many  elderly  people,  he 
seemed  to  think  were  as  precious  as  if  they  had  been 
turned  into  paper  and  stamped  with  promises  to  pay 
in  thousands,  from  the  national  treasury.  It  was  im- 
possible to  get  this  whim  out  of  him,  and  the  young 
doctor  had  tact  enough  to  humor  him  in  it.  All  this 
did  not  look  very  promising  for  the  state  of  mind  in 
which  the  patient  was  like  to  receive  his  bill  for  at- 
tendance when  that  should  be  presented.  Doctor 
Benjamin  was  man  enough,  however,  to  come  up  to 
the  mark,  and  sent  him  in  such  an  account  as  it  was 
becoming  to  send  a  man  of  ample  means  who  had 
been  diligently  and  skilfully  cared  for.  He  looked 
forward  with  some  uncertainty  as  to  how  it  would  be 
received.  Perhaps  his  patient  would  try  to  beat  him 
down,  and  Doctor  Benjamin  made  up  his  mind  to 
have  the  whole  or  nothing.  Perhaps  he  would  pay 
the  whole  amount,  but  with  a  look,  and  possibly  a 
word,  that  would  make  every  dollar  of  it  burn  like  a 
blister. 

Doctor  Benjamin's  conjectures  were  not  unnatural, 
but  quite  remote  from  the  actual  fact.  As  soon  as 
his  patient  had  got  entirely  well,  the  young  physician 
sent  in  his  bill.  The  Capitalist  requested  him  to  step 
into  his  room  with  him,  and  paid  the  full  charge  in 
the  handsomest  and  most  gratifying  way,  thanking 
him  for  his  skill  and  attention,  and  assuring  him  that 
he  had  had  great  satisfaction  in  submitting  himself 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.    255 

to  such  competent  hands,  and  should  certainly  apply 
to  him  again  in  case  he  should  have  any  occasion  for 
a  medical  adviser.  We  must  not  be  too  sagacious  in 
judging  people  by  the  little  excrescences  of  their  char- 
acter. Ex  pede  Herculem  may  often  prove  safe 
enough,  but  ex  verruca  Tullium  is  liable  to  mislead  a 
hasty  judge  of  his  fellow-men. 

I  have  studied  the  people  called  misers  and  thought 
a  good  deal  about  them.  In  former  years  I  used  to 
keep  a  little  gold  by  me  in  order  to  ascertain  for  my- 
self exactly  the  amount  of  pleasure  to  be  got  out  of 
handling  it;  this  being  the  traditional  delight  of  the 
old-fashioned  miser.  It  is  by  no  means  to  be  despised. 
Three  or  four  hundred  dollars  in  double-eagles  will  do 
very  well  to  experiment  on.  There  is  something  very 
agreeable  in  the  yellow  gleam,  very  musical  in  the 
metallic  clink,  very  satisfying  in  the  singular  weight, 
and  very  stimulating  in  the  feeling  that  all  the  world 
over  these  same  yellow  disks  are  the  master-keys  that 
let  one  in  wherever  he  wants  to  go,  the  servants  that 
bring  him  pretty  nearly  everything  he  wants,  except 
virtue,  —  and  a  good  deal  of  what  passes  for  that.  I 
confess,  then,  to  an  honest  liking  for  the  splendors 
and  the  specific  gravity  and  the  manifold  potentiality 
of  the  royal  metal,  and  I  understand,  after  a  certain 
imperfect  fashion,  the  delight  that  an  old  ragged 
wretch,  starving  himself  in  a  crazy  hovel,  takes  in 
stuffing  guineas  into  old  stockings  and  filling  earthen 
pots  with  sovereigns,  and  every  now  and  then  visiting 
his  hoards  and  fingering  the  fat  pieces,  and  thinking 
over  all  that  they  represent  of  earthly  and  angelic  and 
diabolic  energy.  A  miser  pouring  out  his  guineas 
into  his  palm  and  bathing  his  shrivelled  and  trembling 
hands  in  the  yellow  heaps  before  him,  is  not  the  pro- 


256    THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

sale  being  we  are  in  the  habit  of  thinking  him.  He  is 
a  dreamer,  almost  a  poet.  You  and  I  read  a  novel  or 
a  poem  to  help  our  imaginations  to  build  up  palaces, 
and  transport  us  into  the  emotional  states  and.  the  fe- 
licitous conditions  of  the  ideal  characters  pictured  in 
the  book  we  are  reading.  But  think  of  him  and  the 
significance  of  the  symbols  he  is  handling  as  compared 
with  the  empty  syllables  and  words  we  are  using  to 
build  our  aerial  edifices  with !  In  this  hand  he  holds 
the  smile  of  beauty  and  in  that  the  dagger  of  revenge. 
The  contents  of  that  old  glove  will  buy  him  the  will- 
ing service  of  many -an  adroit  sinner,  and  with  what 
that  coarse  sack  contains  he  can  purchase  the  prayers 
of  holy  men  for  all  succeeding  time.  In  this  chest  is 
a  castle  in  Spain,  a  real  one,  and  not  only  in  Spain, 
but  anywhere  he  will  choose  to  have  it.  If  he  would 
know  what  is  the  liberality  of  judgment  of  any  of  the 
straiter  sects,  he  has  only  to  hand  over  that  box  of 
rouleaux  to  the  trustees  of  one  of  its  educational  insti- 
tutions for  the  endowment  of  two  or  three  professor- 
ships. If  he  would  dream  of  being  remembered  by 
coming  generations,  what  monument  so  enduring  as  a 
college  building  that  shall  bear  his  name,  and  even 
when  its  solid  masonry  shall  crumble  give  place  to 
another  still  charged  with  the  same  sacred  duty  of  per- 
petuating his  remembrance.  Who  was  Sir  Matthew 
Holworthy,  that  his  name  is  a  household  word  on  the 
lips  of  thousands  of  scholars,  and  will  be  centuries 
hence,  as  that  of  Walter  de  Merton,  dead  six  hundred 
years  ago,  is  to-day  at  Oxford?  Who  was  Mistress 
Holden,  that  she  should  be  blessed  among  women  by 
having  her  name  spoken  gratefully  and  the  little  edi- 
fice she  caused  to  be  erected  preserved  as  her  monu- 
ment from  generation  to  generation  ?  All  these  pos- 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.    257 

sibilities,  the  lust  of  the  eye,  the  lust  of  the  flesh,  the 
pride  of  life;  the  tears  of  grateful  orphans  by  the 
gallon;  the  prayers  of  Westminster  Assembly's  Cate- 
chism divines  by  the  thousand;  the  masses  of  priests 
by  the  century ;  —  all  these  things,  and  more  if  more 
there  be  that  the  imagination  of  a  lover  of  gold  is 
likely  to  range  over,  the  miser  hears  and  sees  and 
feels  and  hugs  and  enjoys  as  he  paddles  with  his  lean 
hands  among  the  sliding,  shining,  ringing,  innocent- 
looking  bits  of  yellow  metal,  toying  with  them  as  the 
lion-tamer  handles  the  great  carnivorous  monster, 
whose  might  and  whose  terrors  are  child's  play  to  the 
latent  forces  and  power  of  harm-doing  of  the  glitter- 
ing counters  played  with  in  the  great  game  between 
angels  and  devils. 

I  have  seen  a  good  deal  of  misers,  and  I  think  I 
understand  them  as  well  as  most  persons  do.  But 
the  Capitalist's  economy  in  rags  and  his  liberality  to 
the  young  doctor  are  very  oddly  contrasted  with  each 
other.  I  should  not  be  surprised  at  any  time  to  hear 
that  he  had  endowed  a  scholarship  or  professorship  or 
built  a  college  dormitory,  in  spite  of  his  curious  parsi- 
mony in  old  linen. 

I  do  not  know  where  our  Young  Astronomer  got 
the  notions  that  he  expresses  so  freely  in  the  lines 
that  follow.  I  think  the  statement  is  true,  however, 
which  I  see  in  one  of  the  most  popular  Cyclopaedias, 
that  "the  non-clerical  mind  in  all  ages  is  disposed  to 
look  favorably  upon  the  doctrine  of  the  universal  res- 
toration to  holiness  and  happiness  of  all  fallen  intelli- 
gences, whether  human  or  angelic."  Certainly,  most 
of  the  poets  who  have  reached  the  heart  of  men,  since 
Burns  dropped  the  tear  for  poor  "auld  Nickie-ben" 


258    THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

that  softened  the  stony-hearted  theology  of  Scotland, 
have  had  "non-clerical"  minds,  and  I  suppose  our 
young  friend  is  in  his  humble  way  an  optimist  like 
them.  What  he  says  in  verse  is  very  much  the  same 
thing  as  what  is  said  in  prose  in  all  companies,  and 
thought  by  a  great  many  who  are  thankful  to  anybody 
that  will  say  it  for  them,  —  not  a  few  clerical  as  well 
as  "non-clerical"  persons  among  them. 


WIND-CLOUDS  AND  STAR-DRIFTS, 
v. 

What  am  I  but  the  creature  Thou  hast  made  ? 
What  have  I  save  the  blessings  Thou  hast  lent  ? 
What  hope  I  but  Thy  mercy  and  Thy  love  ? 
Who  but  myself  shall  cloud  my  soul  with  fear  ? 
Whose  hand  protect  me  from  myself  but  Thine  ? 

I  claim  the  rights  of  weakness,  I,  the  babe, 
Call  on  my  sire  to  shield  me  from  the  ills 
That  still  beset  my  path,  not  trying  me 
With  snares  beyond  my  wisdom  or  my  strength, 
He  knowing  I  shall  use  them  to  my  harm, 
And  find  a  tenfold  misery  in  the  sense 
That  in  my  childlike  folly  I  have  sprung 
The  trap  upon  myself  as  vermin  use 
Drawn  by  the  cunning  bait  to  certain  doom. 
Who  wrought  the  wondrous  charm  that  leads  us  on 
To  sweet  perdition,  but  the  self-same  power 
That  set  the  fearful  engine  to  destroy 
His  wretched  offspring  (as  the  Rabbis  tell), 
And  hid  its  yawning  jaws  and  treacherous  springs 
In  such  a  show  of  innocent  sweet  flowers 
It  lured  the  sinless  angels  and  they  fell  ? 

Ah  !     He  who  prayed  the  prayer  of  all  mankind 
Summed  in  those  few  brief  words  the  mightiest  plea 
For  erring  souls  before  the  courts  of  heaven,  — 
Save  us  from  being  tempted,  —  lest  we  fall ! 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.     259 

If  we  are  only  as  the  potter's  clay 

Made  to  be  fashioned  as  the  artist  wills, 

And  broken  into  shards  if  we  offend 

The  eye  of  Him  who  made  us,  it  is  well ; 

Such  love  as  the  insensate  lump  of  clay 

That  spins  upon  the  swift-revolving  wheel 

Bears  to  the  hand  that  shapes  its  growing  form,— 

Such  love,  no  more,  will  be  our  hearts'  return 

To  the  great  Master-workman  for  his  care,  — 

Or  would  be,  save  that  this,  our  breathing  clay, 

Is  intertwined  with  fine  innumerous  threads 

That  make  it  conscious  in  its  framer's  hand  ; 

And  this  He  must  remember  who  has  filled 

These  vessels  with  the  deadly  draught  of  life,  — 

Life,  that  means  death  to  all  it  claims.     Our  love 

Must  kindle  in  the  ray  that  streams  from  heaven, 

A  faint  reflection  of  the  light  divine  ; 

The  sun  must  warm  the  earth  before  the  rose 

Can  show  her  inmost  heart-leaves  to  the  sun. 

He  yields  some  fraction  of  the  Maker's  right      ' 

Who  gives  the  quivering  nerve  its  sense  of  pain  ; 

Is  there  not  something  in  the  pleading  eye 

Of  the  poor  brute  that  suffers,  which  arraigns 

The  law  that  bids  it  suffer  ?     Has  it  not 

A  claim  for  some  remembrance  in  the  book 

That  fills  its  pages  with  the  idle  words 

Spoken  of  men  ?     Or  is  it  only  clay, 

Bleeding  and  aching  in  the  potter's  hand, 

Yet  all  his  own  to  treat  it  as  he  will 

And  when  he  will  to  cast  it  at  his  feet, 

Shattered,  dishonored,  lost  f orevermore  ? 

My  dog  loves  me,  but  could  he  look  beyond 

His  earthly  master,  would  his  love  extend 

To  Him  who  —    Hush  !     I  will  not  doubt  that  He 

Is  better  than  our  fears,  and  will  not  wrong 

The  least,  the  meanest  of  created  things  ! 

He  would  not  trust  me  with  the  smallest  orb 
That  circles  through  the  sky  ;  he  would  not  give 
A  meteor  to  my  guidance  ;  would  not  leave 


260    THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

The  coloring  of  a  cloudlet  to  my  hand  ; 
He  locks  my  beating  heart  beneath  its  bars 
And  keeps  the  key  himself  ;  he  measures  out 
The  draughts  of  vital  breath  that  warm  my  blood, 
Winds  up  the  springs  of  instinct  which  uncoil, 
Each  in  its  season  ;  ties  me  to  my  home, 
My  race,  my  time,  my  nation,  and  my  creed 
So  closely  that  if  I  but  slip  my  wrist 
Out  of  the  band  that  cuts  it  to  the  bone, 
Men  say,  "  He  hath  a  devil  " ;  he  has  lent 
All  that  I  hold  in  trust,  as  unto  one 
By  reason  of  his  weakness  and  his  years 
Not  fit  to  hold  the  smallest  shred  in  fee 
Of  those  most  common  things  he  calls  his  own  — 
And  yet  —  my  Rabbi  tells  me  —  he  has  left 
The  care  of  that  to  which  a  million  worlds 
Filled  with  unconscious  life  were  less  than  naught, 
Has  left  that  mighty  universe,  the  Soul, 
To  the  weak  guidance  of  our  baby  hands, 
Turned  us  adrift  with  our  immortal  charge, 
Let  the  foul  fiends  have  access  at  their  will, 
Taking  the  shape  of  angels,  to  our  hearts,  — 
Our  hearts  already  poisoned  through  and  through 
With  the  fierce  virus  of  ancestral  sin. 
If  what  my  Rabbi  tells  me  is  the  truth, 
Why  did  the  choir  of  angels  sing  for  joy  ? 
Heaven  must  be  compassed  in  a  narrow  space, 
And  offer  more  than  room  enough  for  all 
That  pass  its  portals  ;  but  the  underworld, 
The  godless  realm,  the  place  where  demons  forge 
Their  fiery  darts  and  adamantine  chains, 
Must  swarm  with  ghosts  that  for  a  little  while 
Had  worn  the  garb  of  flesh,  and  being  heirs 
Of  all  the  dulness  of  their  stolid  sires, 
And  all  the  erring  instincts  of  their  tribe, 
Nature's  own  teaching,  rudiments  of  "  sin," 
Fell  headlong  in  the  snare  that  could  not  fail 
To  trap  the  wretched  creatures  shaped  of  clay 
And  cursed  with  sense  enough  to  lose  their  souls  ! 

Brother,  thy  heart  is  troubled  at  my  word  ; 
Sister,  I  see  the  cloud  is  on  thy  brow. 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.    261 

He  will  not  blame  me,  He  who  sends  not  peace, 

But  sends  a  sword,  and  bids  us  strike  amain 

At  Error's  gilded  crest,  where  in  the  van 

Of  earth's  great  army,  mingling  with  the  best 

And  bravest  of  its  leaders,  shouting  loud 

The  battle-cries  that  yesterday  have  led 

The  host  of  Truth  to  victory,  but  to-day 

Are  watchwords  of  the  laggard  and  the  slave, 

He  leads  his  dazzled  cohorts.     God  has  made 

This  world  a  strife  of  atoms  and  of  spheres ; 

With  every  breath  I  sigh  myself  away 

And  take  my  tribute  from  the  wandering  wind 

To  fan  the  flame  of  life's  consuming  fire  ; 

So,  while  my  thought  has  life,  it  needs  must  burn, 

And  burning,  set  the  stubble-fields  ablaze, 

Where  all  the  harvest  long  ago  was  reaped 

And  safely  garnered  in  the  ancient  barns, 

But  still  the  gleaners,  groping  for  their  food, 

Go  blindly  feeling  through  the  close-shorn  straw, 

While  the  young  reapers  flash  their  glittering  steel 

Where  later  suns  have  ripened  nobler  grain  ! 

We  listened  to  these  lines  in  silence.  They  were 
evidently  written  honestly,  and  with  feeling,  and  no 
doubt  meant  to  be  reverential.  I  thought,  however, 
the  Lady  looked  rather  serious  as  he  finished  reading. 
The  Young  Girl's  cheeks  were  flushed,  but  she  was 
not  in  the  mood  for  criticism. 

As  we  came  away  the  Master  said  to  me  —  The 
stubble-fields  are  mighty  slow  to  take  fire.  These 
young  fellows  catch  up  with  the  world's  ideas  one 
after  another,  —  they  have  been  tamed  a  long  while, 
but  they  find  them  running  loose  in  their  minds,  and 
think  they  are  ferce  naturce.  They  remind  me  of 
young  sportsmen  who  fire  at  the  first  feathers  they 
see,  and  bring  down  a  barnyard  fowl.  But  the 
chicken  may  be  worth  bagging  for  all  that,  he  said, 
good-humoredly. 


262    THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


X. 

Caveat  Lector.  Let  the  reader  look  out  for  him- 
self. The  old  Master,  whose  words  I  have  so  fre- 
quently quoted  and  shall  quote  more  of,  is  a  dogmatist 
who  lays  down  the  law,  ex  cathedra,  from  the  chair  of 
his  own  personality.  I  do  not  deny  that  he  has  the 
ambition  of  knowing  something  about  a  greater  num- 
ber of  subjects  than  any  one  man  ought  to  meddle 
with,  except  in  a  very  humble  and  modest  way.  And 
that  is  not  his  way.  There  was  no  doubt  something 
of  humorous  bravado  in  his  saying  that  the  actual 
"order  of  things"  did  not  offer  a  field  sufficiently 
ample  for  his  intelligence.  But  if  I  found  fault  with 
him,  which  would  be  easy  enough,  I  should  say  that 
he  holds  and  expresses  definite  opinions  about  mat- 
ters that  he  could  afford  to  leave  open  questions,  or 
ask  the  judgment  of  others  about.  But  I  do  not 
want  to  find  fault  with  him.  If  he  does  not  settle  all 
the  points  he  speaks  of  so  authoritatively,  he  sets  me 
thinking  about  them,  and  I  like  a  man  as  a  companion 
who  is  not  afraid  of  a  half-truth.  I  know  he  says 
some  things  peremptorily  that  he  may  inwardly  debate 
with  himself.  There  are  two  ways  of  dealing  with 
assertions  of  this  kind.  One  may  attack  them  on  the 
false  side  and  perhaps  gain  a  conversational  victory. 
But  I  like  better  to  take  them  up  on  the  true  side  and 
see  how  much  can  be  made  of  that  aspect  of  the  dog- 
matic assertion.  It  is  the  only  comfortable  way  of 
dealing  with  persons  like  the  old  Master. 

There  have  been  three  famous  talkers  in  Great 
Britain,  either  of  whom  would  illustrate  what  I  say 
about  dogmatists  well  enough  for  my  purpose.  You 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.     263 

cannot  doubt  to  what  three  I  refer :  Samuel  the  First, 
Samuel  the  Second,  and  Thomas,  last  of  the  Dynasty. 
(I  mean  the  living  Thomas  and  not  Thomas  B.) 

I  say  the,  last  of  the  Dynasty,  for  the  conversational 
dogmatist  on  the  imperial  scale  becomes  every  year 
more  and  more  an  impossibility.  If  he  is  in  intelli- 
gent company  he  will  be  almost  sure  to  find  some  one 
who  knows  more  about  some  of  the  subjects  he  gener- 
alizes upon  than  any  wholesale  thinker  who  handles 
knowledge  by  the  cargo  is  like  to  know.  I  find  my- 
self, at  certain  intervals,  in  the  society  of  a  number 
of  experts  in  science,  literature,  and  art,  who  cover  a 
pretty  wide  range,  taking  them  all  together,  of  hu- 
man knowledge.  I  have  not  the  least  doubt  that  if 
the  great  Dr.  Samuel  Johnson  should  come  in  and  sit 
with  this  company  at  one  of  their  Saturday  dinners, 
he  would  be  listened  to,  as  he  always  was,  with  re- 
spect and  attention.  But  there  are  subjects  upon 
which  the  great  talker  could  speak  magisterially  in  his 
time  and  at  his  club,  upon  which  so  wise  a  man 
would  express  himself  guardedly  at  the  meeting  where 
I  have  supposed  him  a  guest.  We  have  a  scientific 
man  or  two  among  us,  for  instance,  who  would  be 
entitled  to  smile  at  the  good  Doctor's  estimate  of  their 
labors,  as  I  give  it  here :  — 

"  Of  those  that  spin  out  life  in  trifles  and  die  with- 
out a  memorial,  many  flatter  themselves  with  high 
opinion  of  their  own  importance  and  imagine  that 
they  are  every  day  adding  some  improvement  to  human 
life." — "Some  turn  the  wheel  of  electricity,  some 
suspend  rings  to  a  loadstone,  and  find  that  what  they 
did  yesterday  they  can  do  again  to-day.  Some  regis- 
ter the  changes  of  the  wind,  and  die  fully  convinced 
that  the  wind  is  changeable. 


264     THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

"There  are  men  yet  more  profound,  who  have 
heard  that  two  colorless  liquors  may  produce  a  color 
by  union,  and  that  two  cold  bodies  will  grow  hot  if 
they  are  mingled ;  they  mingle  them,  and  produce  the 
effect  expected,  say  it  is  strange,  and  mingle  them 
again." 

I  cannot  transcribe  this  extract  without  an  intense 
inward  delight  in  its  wit  and  a  full  recognition  of  its 
thorough  half -truthfulness.  Yet  if  while  the  great 
moralist  is  indulging  in  these  vivacities,  he  can  be 
imagined  as  receiving  a  message  from  Mr.  Boswell  or 
Mrs.  Thrale  flashed  through  the  depths  of  the  ocean, 
we  can  suppose  he  might  be  tempted  to  indulge  in 
another  oracular  utterance,  something  like  this :  — 

—  A  wise  man  recognizes  the  convenience  of  a  gen- 
eral statement,  but  he  bows  to  the  authority  of  a  par- 
ticular fact.     He  who  would  bound  the  possibilities  of 
human  knowledge  by  the  limitations  of   present  ac- 
quirements would  take  the  dimensions  of  the  infant  in 
ordering  the  habiliments  of  the  adult.     It  is  the  pro- 
vince of  knowledge  to  speak  and  it  is  the  privilege  of 
wisdom  to  listen.     Will  the  Professor  have  the  kind 
ness  to  inform  me  by  what  steps  of  gradual  develop, 
ment  the  ring  and  the  loadstone,  which  were  but  yes- 
terday the  toys  of  children  and  idlers,  have  become 
the  means  of  approximating  the  intelligences  of  remote 
continents,  and  wafting  emotions   unchilled  through 
the  abysses  of  the  no  longer  unfathomable  deep? 

—  This,  you  understand,  Beloved,  is  only  a  con- 
ventional imitation  of  the  Doctor's  style  of  talking. 
He  wrote  in  grand  balanced  phrases,  but  his  conver- 
sation was  good,  lusty,  off-hand  familiar  talk.     He 
used  very  often  to  have  it  all  his  own  way.     If  he 
came  back  to  us  we  must  remember  that  to  treat  him 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.     265 

fairly  we  must  suppose  him  on  a  level  with  the  know- 
ledge of  our  own  time.  But  that  knowledge  is  more 
specialized,  a  great  deal,  than  knowledge  was  in  his 
day.  Men  cannot  talk  about  things  they  have  seen 
from  the  outside  with  the  same  magisterial  authority 
the  talking  dynasty  pretended  to.  The  sturdy  old 
moralist  felt  grand  enough,  no  doubt,  when  he  said, 
"He  that  is  growing  great  and  happy  by  electrify- 
ing a  bottle  wonders  how  the  world  can  be  engaged 
by  trifling  prattle  about  war  or  peace."  Benjamin 
Franklin  was  one  of  these  idlers  who  were  electrifying 
bottles,  but  he  also  found  time  to  engage  in  the  trifling 
prattle  about  war  and  peace  going  on  in  those  times. 
The  talking  Doctor  hits  him  very  hard  in  "Taxation 
no  Tyranny  " :  "Those  who  wrote  the  Address  (of  the 
American  Congress  in  1775),  though  they  have  shown 
no  great  extent  or  profundity  of  mind,  are  yet  prob- 
ably wiser  than  to  believe  it:  but  they  have  been 
taught  by  some  master  of  mischief  how  to  put  in  mo- 
tion the  engine  of  political  electricity;  to  attract  by 
the  sounds  of  Liberty  and  Property,  to  repel  by  those 
of  Popery  and  Slavery;  and  to  give  the  great  stroke 
by  the  name  of  Boston." 

The  talking  dynasty  has  always  been  hard  upon  us 
Americans.  King  Samuel  II.  says :  "  It  is,  I  believe, 
a  fact  verified  beyond  doubt,  that  some  years  ago  it 
was  impossible  to  obtain  a  copy  of  the  Newgate  Cal- 
endar, as  they  had  all  been  bought  up  by  the  Ameri- 
cans, whether  to  suppress  the  blazon  of  their  forefa- 
thers or  to  assist  in  their  genealogical  researches  I 
could  never  learn  satisfactorily." 

As  for  King  Thomas,  the  last  of  the  monological 
succession,  he  made  such  a  piece  of  work  with  his 
prophecies  and  his  sarcasms  about  our  little  trouble 


266     THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

with  some  of  the  Southern  States,  that  we  came 
rather  to  pity  him  for  his  whims  and  crotchets  than  to 
get  angry  with  him  for  calling  us  bores  and  other 
unamiable  names. 

I  do  not  think  we  believe  things  because  consider- 
able people  say  them,  on  personal  authority,  that  is, 
as  intelligent  listeners  very  commonly  did  a  century 
ago.  The  newspapers  have  lied  that  belief  out  of  us. 
Any  man  who  has  a  pretty  gift  of  talk  may  hold  his 
company  a  little  while  when  there  is  nothing  better 
stirring.  Every  now  and  then  a  man  who  may  be 
dull  enough  prevailingly  has  a  passion  of  talk  come 
over  him  which  makes  him  eloquent  and  silences  the 
rest.  I  have  a  great  respect  for  these  divine  parox- 
ysms, these  half-inspired  moments  of  influx  when 
they  seize  one  whom  we  had  not  counted  among  the 
luminaries  of  the  social  sphere.  But  the  man  who 
can  give  us  a  fresh  experience  on  anything  that  in- 
terests us  overriaes  everybody  else.  A  great  peril 
escaped  makes  a  great  story-teller  of  a  common  per- 
son enough.  I  remember  when  a  certain  vessel  was 
wrecked  long  ago,  that  one  of  the  survivors  told  the 
story  as  well  as  Defoe  could  have  told  it.  Never  a 
word  from  him  before ;  never  a  word  from  him  since. 
But  when  it  comes  to  talking  one's  common  thoughts, 
—  those  that  come  and  go  as  the  breath  does ;  those 
that  tread  the  mental  areas  and  corridors  with  steady, 
even  foot-fall,  an  interminable  procession  of  every  hue 
and  garb,  —  there  are  few,  indeed,  that  can  dare  to 
lift  the  curtain  which  hangs  before  the  window  in  the 
breast  and  throw  open  the  window,  and  let  us  look 
and  listen.  We  are  all  loyal  enough  to  our  sovereign 
when  he  shows  himself,  but  sovereigns  are  scarce.  I 
never  saw  the  absolute  homage  of  listeners  but  once, 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.    267 

that  I  remember,  to  a  man's  common  talk,  and  that 
was  to  the  conversation  of  an  old  man,  illustrious  by 
his  lineage  and  the  exalted  honors  he  had  won,  whose 
experience  had  lessons  for  the  wisest,  and  whose  elo- 
quence had  made  the  boldest  tremble. 

All  this  because  1  told  you  to  look  out  for  your- 
selves and  not  take  for  absolute  truth  everything  the 
old  Master  of  our  table,  or  anybody  else  at  it  sees  fit 
to  utter.  At  the  same  time  I  do  not  think  that  he, 
or  any  of  us  whose  conversation  I  think  worth  report- 
ing, says  anything  for  the  mere  sake  of  saying  it  and 
without  thinking  that  it  holds  some  truth,  even  if  it  is 
not  unqualifiedly  true. 

I  suppose  a  certain  number  of  my  readers  wish  very 
heartily  that  the  Young  Astronomer  whose  poetical 
speculations  I  am  recording  would  stop  trying  by 
searching  to  find  out  the  Almighty,  and  sign  the 
thirty-nine  articles,  or  the  Westminster  Confession 
of  Faith,  at  any  rate  slip  his  neck  into  some  collar 
or  other,  and  pull  quietly  in  the  harness,  whether  it 
galled  him  or  not.  I  say,  rather,  let  him  have  his 
talk  out ;  if  nobody  else  asks  the  questions  he  asks, 
some  will  be  glad  to  hear  them,  but  if  you,  the  reader, 
find  the  same  questions  in  your  own  mind,  you  need 
not  be  afraid  to  see  how  they  shape  themselves  in  an- 
other's intelligence.  Do  you  recognize  the  fact  that 
we  are  living  in  a  new  time  ?  Knowledge  —  it  excites 
prejudices  to  call  it  science  —  is  advancing  as  irresist- 
ibly, as  majestically,  as  remorselessly  as  the  ocean 
moves  in  upon  the  shore.  The  courtiers  of  King 
Canute  (I  am  not  afraid  of  the  old  comparison),  rep- 
resented by  the  adherents  of  the  traditional  beliefs  of 
the  period,  move  his  chair  back  an  inch  at  a  time,  but 


268    THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

not  until  his  feet  are  pretty  damp,  not  to  say  wet. 
The  rock  on  which  he  sat  securely  awhile  ago  is  com- 
pletely under  water.  And  now  people  are  walking 
up  and  down  the  beach  and  judging  for  themselves 
how  far  inland  the  chair  of  King  Canute  is  like  to  be 
moved  while  they  and  their  children  are  looking  on,  at 
the  rate  in  which  it  is  edging  backward.  And  it  is 
quite  too  late  to  go  into  hysterics  about  it. 

The  shore,  solid,  substantial,  a  great  deal  more 
than  eighteen  hundred  years  old,  is  natural  humanity. 
The  beach  which  the  ocean  of  knowledge  —  you  may 
call  it  science  if  you  like  —  is  flowing  over,  is  theolo- 
gical humanity.  Somewhere  between  the  Sermon  on 
the  Mount  and  the  teachings  of  Saint  Augustine  sin 
was  made  a  transferable  chattel.  (I  leave  the  inter- 
val wide  for  others  to  make  narrow.) 

The  doctrine  of  heritable  guilt,  with  its  mechanical 
consequences,  has  done  for  our  moral  nature  what  the 
doctrine  of  demoniac  possession  has  done  in  barbarous 
times  and  still  does  among  barbarous  tribes  for  disease. 
Out  of  that  black  cloud  came  the  lightning  which 
struck  the  compass  of  humanity.  Conscience,  which 
from  the  dawn  of  moral  being  had  pointed  to  the  poles 
of  right  and  wrong  only  as  the  great  current  of  will 
flowed  through  the  soul,  was  demagnetized,  paralyzed, 
and  knew  henceforth  no  fixed  meridian,  but  stayed 
where  the  priest  or  the  council  placed  it.  There  is 
nothing  to  be  done  but  to  polarize  the  needle  over 
again.  And  for  this  purpose  we  must  study  the  lines 
of  direction  of  all  the  forces  which  traverse  our  human 
nature. 

We  must  study  man  as  we  have  studied  stars  and 
rocks.  We  need  not  go,  we  are  told,  to  our  sacred 
books  for  astronomy  or  geology  or  other  scientific 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.     269 

knowledge.  Do  not  stop  there !  Pull  Canute's  chair 
back  fifty  rods  at  once,  and  do  not  wait  until  he  is 
wet  to  the  knees!  Say  now,  bravely,  as  you  will 
sooner  or  later  have  to  say,  that  we  need  not  go  to  any 
ancient  records  for  our  anthropology.  Do  we  not  all 
hope^  at  least,  that  the  doctrine  of  man's  being  a 
blighted  abortion,  a  miserable  disappointment  to  his 
Creator,  and  hostile  and  hateful  to  him  from  his 
birth,  may  give  way  to  the  belief  that  he  is  the  latest 
terrestrial  manifestation  of  an  ever  upward-striving 
movement  of  divine  power  ?  If  there  lives  a  man  who 
does  not  want  to  disbelieve  the  popular  notions  about 
the  condition  and  destiny  of  the  bulk  of  his  race,  I 
should  like  to  have  him  look  me  in  the  face  and  tell 
me  so. 

I  am  not  writing  for  the  basement  story  or  the  nur- 
sery, and  I  do  not  pretend  to  be,  but  I  say  nothing  in 
these  pages  which  would  not  be  said  without  fear  of 
offence  in  any  intelligent  circle,  such  as  clergymen  of 
the  higher  castes  are  in  the  habit  of  frequenting. 
There  are  teachers  in  type  for  our  grandmothers  and 
our  grandchildren  who  vaccinate  the  two  childhoods 
with  wholesome  doctrine,  transmitted  harmlessly  from 
one  infant  to  another.  But  we  three  men  at  our  table 
have  taken  the  disease  of  thinking  in  the  natural  way. 
It  is  an  epidemic  in  these  times,  and  those  who  are 
afraid  of  it  must  shut  themselves  up  close  or  they  will 
catch  it. 

I  hope  none  of  us  are  wanting  in  reverence.  One 
at  least  of  us  is  a  regular  church-goer,  and  believes  a 
man  may  be  devout  and  yet  very  free  in  the  expres- 
sion of  his  opinions  on  the  gravest  subjects.  There 
may  be  some  good  people  who  think  that  our  young 
friend  who  puts  his  thoughts  in  verse  is  going  sound- 


270     THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

ing  over  perilous  depths,  and  are  frightened  every 
time  he  throws  the  lead.  There  is  nothing  to  be 
frightened  at.  This  is  a  manly  world  we  live  in. 
Our  reverence  is  good  for  nothing  if  it  does  not  begin 
with  self-respect.  Occidental  manhood  springs  from 
that  as  its  basis ;  Oriental  manhood  finds  the  greatest 
satisfaction  in  self-abasement.  There  is  no  use  in  try. 
ing  to  graft  the  tropical  palm  upon  the  Northern  pine. 
The  same  divine  forces  underlie  the  growth  of  both, 
but  leaf  and  flower  and  fruit  must  follow  the  law  of 
race,  of  soil,  of  climate.  Whether  the  questions 
which  assail  my  young  friend  have  risen  in  my  read- 
er's mind  or  not,  he  knows  perfectly  well  that  no- 
body can  keep  such  questions  from  springing  up  in 
every  young  mind  of  any  force  or  honesty.  As  for 
the  excellent  little  wretches  who  grow  up  in  what  they 
are  taught,  with  never  a  scruple  or  a  query,  Prot- 
estant or  Catholic,  Jew  or  Mormon,  Mahometan  or 
Buddhist,  they  signify  nothing  in  the  intellectual  life 
of  the  race.  If  the  world  had  been  wholly  peopled 
with  such  half -vitalized  mental  negatives,  there  never 
would  have  been  a  creed  like  that  of  Christendom. 

I  entirely  agree  with  the  spirit  of  the  verses  I  have 
looked  over,  in  this  point  at  least,  that  a  true  man's 
allegiance  is  given  to  that  which  is  highest  in  his  own 
nature.  He  reverences  truth,  he  loves  kindness,  he 
respects  justice.  The  two  first  qualities  he  under- 
stands well  enough.  But  the  last,  justice,  at  least  as 
between  the  Infinite  and  the  finite,  has  been  so  ut- 
terly dehumanized,  disintegrated,  decomposed,  and 
diabolized  in  passing  through  the  minds  of  the  half- 
civilized  banditti  who  have  peopled  and  unpeopled  the 
world  for  some  scores  of  generations,  that  it  has 
become  a  mere  algebraic  05,  and  has  no  fixed  value  • 
whatever  as  a  human  conception. 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.     271 

As  for  power,  we  are  outgrowing  all  superstition 
about  that.  We  have  not  the  slightest  respect  for  it 
as  such,  and  it  is  just  as  well  to  remember  this  in  all 
our  spiritual  adjustments.  We  fear  power  when  we 
cannot  master  it;  but  just  as  far  as  we  can  master  it, 
we  make  a  slave  and  a  beast  of  burden  of  it  without 
hesitation.  We  cannot  change  the  ebb  and  flow  of 
the  tides,  or  the  course  of  the  seasons,  but  we  come  as 
near  it  as  we  can.  We  dam  out  the  ocean,  we  make 
roses  blow  in  winter  and  water  freeze  in  summer. 
We  have  no  more  reverence  for  the  sun  than  we  have 
for  a  fish-tail  gas-burner ;  we  stare  into  his  face  with 
telescopes  as  at  a  ballet-dancer  with  opera-glasses ;  we 
pick  his  rays  to  pieces  with  prisms  as  if  they  were  so 
many  skeins  of  colored  yarn;  we  tell  him  we  do  not 
want  his  company  and  shut  him  out  like  a  troublesome 
vagrant.  The  gods  of  the  old  heathen  are  the  servants 
of  to-day.  Neptune,  Vulcan,  ^Eolus,  and  the  bearer 
of  the  thunderbolt  himself  have  stepped  down  from 
their  pedestals  and  put  on  our  livery.  We  cannot 
always  master  them,  neither  can  we  always  master 
our  servant,  the  horse,  but  we  have  put  a  bridle  on 
the  wildest  natural  agencies.  The  mob  of  elemental 
forces  is  as  noisy  and  turbulent  as  ever,  but  the  stand- 
ing army  of  civilization  keeps  it  well  under,  except 
for  an  occasional  outbreak. 

When  I  read  the  Lady's  letter  printed  some  time 
since,  I  could  not  help  honoring  the  feeling  which 
prompted  her  in  writing  it.  But  while  I  respect  the 
innocent  incapacity  of  tender  age  and  the  limitations 
of  the  comparatively  uninstructed  classes,  it  is  quite 
out  of  the  question  to  act  as  if  matters  of  common 
intelligence  and  universal  interest  were  the  private 
property  of  a  secret  society,  only  to  be  meddled  with 
by  those  who  know  the  grip  and  the  password. 


272     THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE, 

We  must  get  over  the  habit  of  transferring  the  lim- 
itations of  the  nervous  temperament  and  of  hectic 
constitutions  to  the  great  Source  of  all  the  mighty 
forces  of  nature,  animate  and  inanimate.  We  may 
confidently  trust  that  we  have  over  us  a  Being  thor- 
oughly robust  and  grandly  magnanimous,  in  distinc* 
tion  from  the  Infinite  Invalid  bred  in  the  studies  of 
sickly  monomaniacs,  who  corresponds  to  a  very  com- 
mon human  type,  but  makes  us  blush  for  him  when 
we  contrast  him  with  a  truly  noble  man,  such  as  most 
of  us  have  had  the  privilege  of  knowing  both  in  pub- 
lic and  in  private  life. 

I  was  not  a  little  pleased  to  find  that  the  Lady,  in 
spite  of  her  letter,  sat  through  the  young  man's  read- 
ing of  portions  of  his  poem  with  a  good  deal  of  com- 
placency. I  think  I  can  guess  what  is  in  her  mind. 
She  believes,  as  so  many  women  do,  in  that  great 
remedy  for  discontent,  and  doubts  about  humanity, 
and  questionings  of  Providence,  and  all  sorts  of  youth- 
ful vagaries, — I  mean  the  love-cure.  And  she  thinks, 
not  without  some  reason,  that  these  astronomical  les- 
sons, and  these  readings  of  poetry  and  daily  proximity 
at  the  table,  and  the  need  of  two  young  hearts  that 
have  been  long  feeling  lonely,  and  youth  and  nature 
and  "all  impulses  of  soul  and  sense,"  as  Coleridge 
has  it,  will  bring  these  two  young  people  into  closer 
relations  than  they  perhaps  have  yet  thought  of ;  and 
so  that  sweet  lesson  of  loving  the  neighbor  whom  he 
has  seen  may  lead  him  into  deeper  and  more  trusting 
communion  with  the  Friend  and  Father  whom  he  has 
Hot  seen. 

The  Young  Girl  evidently  did  not  intend  that  her 
accomplice  should  be  a  loser  by  the  summary  act  of 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.    273 

the  Member  of  the  Haouse.  I  took  occasion  to  ask 
That  Boy  what  had  become  of  all  the  popguns.  He 
gave  me  to  understand  that  popguns  were  played  out, 
but  that  he  had  got  a  squirt  and  a  whip,  and  consid- 
ered himself  better  off  than  before. 

This  great  world  is  full  of  mysteries.  I  can  com- 
prehend the  pleasure  to  be  got  out  of  the  hydraulic 
engine ;  but  what  can  be  the  fascination  of  a  whip,  when 
one  has  nothing  to  flagellate  but  the  calves  of  his  own 
legs,  I  could  never  understand.  Yet  a  small  riding- 
whip  is  the  most  popular  article  with  the  miscellaneous 
New-Englander  at  all  great  gatherings,  —  cattle-shows 
and  Fourth-of-July  celebrations.  If  Democritus  and 
Heraclitus  could  walk  arm  in  arm  through  one  of 
these  crowds,  the  first  would  be  in  a  broad  laugh 
to  see  the  multitude  of  young  persons  who  were  re- 
joicing in  the  possession  of  one  of  these  useless  and 
worthless  little  commodities ;  happy  himself  to  see  how 
easily  others  could  purchase  happiness.  But  the  sec- 
ond would  weep  bitter  tears  to  think  what  a  rayless 
and  barren  life  that  must  be  which  could  extract  en- 
joyment from  the  miserable  flimsy  wand  that  has  such 
magic  attraction  for  sauntering  youths  and  simpering 
maidens.  What  a  dynamometer  of  happiness  are 
these  paltry  toys,  and  what  a  rudimentary  vertebrate 
must  be  the  freckled  adolescent  whose  yearning  for 
the  infinite  can  be  stayed  even  for  a  single  hour  by 
so  trifling  a  boon  from  the  venal  hands  of  the  finite ! 

Pardon  these  polysyllabic  reflections,  Beloved,  but 
I  never  contemplate  these  dear  fellow-creatures  of  ours 
without  a  delicious  sense  of  superiority  to  them  and  to 
all  arrested  embryos  of  intelligence,  in  which  I  have 
no  doubt  you  heartily  sympathize  with  me.  It  is  not 
merely  when  I  look  at  the  vacuous  countenances  of  the 


274     THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

mastigopliori,  the  whip-holders,  that  I  enjoy  this  lux- 
ury (though  I  would  not  miss  that  holiday  spectacle 
for  a  pretty  sum  of  money,  and  advise  you  by  all 
means  to  make  sure  of  it  next  Fourth  of  July,  if  you 
missed  it  this),  but  I  get  the  same  pleasure  from  many 
similar  manifestations. 

I  delight  in  Regalia,  so  called,  of  the  kind  not 
worn  by  kings,  nor  obtaining  their  diamonds  from 
the  mines  of  Golconda.  I  have  a  passion  for  those 
resplendent  titles  which  are  not  conferred  by  a  sover- 
eign and  would  not  be  the  open  sesame  to  the  courts 
of  royalty,  yet  which  are  as  opulent  in  impressive 
adjectives  as  any  Knight  of  the  Garter's  list  of  digni- 
ties. When  I  have  recognized  in  the  every-day  name 
of  His  Very  Worthy  High  Eminence  of  some  cabalis- 
tic association,  the  inconspicuous  individual  whose 
trifling  indebtedness  to  me  for  value  received  remains 
in  a  quiescent  state  and  is  likely  long  to  continue  so, 
I  confess  to  having  experienced  a  thrill  of  pleasure. 
I  have  smiled  to  think  how  grand  his  magnificent 
titular  appendages  sounded  in  his  own  ears  and  what 
a  feeble  tintinnabulation  they  made  in  mine.  The 
crimson  sash,  the  broad  diagonal  belt  of  the  mounted 
marshal  of  a  great  procession,  so  cheap  in  themselves, 
yet  so  entirely  satisfactory  to  the  wearer,  tickle  my 
heart's  root. 

Perhaps  I  should  have  enjoyed  all  these  weaknesses 
of  my  infantile  fellow-creatures  without  an  after, 
thought,  except  that  on  a  certain  literary  anniversary 
when  I  tie  the  narrow  blue  and  pink  ribbons  in  my 
button-hole  and  show  my  decorated  bosom  to  the  ad- 
miring public,  I  am  conscious  of  a  certain  sense  of 
distinction  and  superiority  in  virtue  of  that  trifling 
addition  to  my  personal  adornments  which  reminds  me 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.    275 

that  I  too  have  some  embryonic  fibres  in  my  tolerably 
well-matured  organism. 

I  hope  I  have  not  hurt  your  feelings,  if  you  happen 
to  be  a  High  and  Mighty  Grand  Functionary  in  any 
illustrious  Fraternity.  When  I  tell  you  that  a  bit  of 
ribbon  in  my  button -hole  sets  my  vanity  prancing,  I; 
think  you  cannot  be  grievously  offended  that  I  smile 
at  the  resonant  titles  which  make  you  something  more 
than  human  in  your  own  eyes.  I  would  not  for  the 
world  be  mistaken  for  one  of  those  literary  roughs 
whose  brass  knuckles  leave  their  mark  on  the  fore- 
heads of  so  many  inoffensive  people. 

There  is  a  human  sub-species  characterized  by  the 
coarseness  of  its  fibre  and  the  acrid  nature  of  its  intel- 
lectual secretions.  It  is  to  a  certain  extent  penetra- 
tive, as  all  creatures  are  which  are  provided  with 
stings.  It  has  an  instinct  which  guides  it  to  the 
vulnerable  parts  of  the  victim  on  which  it  fastens. 
These  two  qualities  give  it  a  certain  degree  of  power 
which  is  not  to  be  despised.  It  might  perhaps  be  less 
mischievous,  but  for  the  fact  that  the  wound  where  it 
leaves  its  poison  opens  the  fountain  from  which  it 
draws  its  nourishment. 

Beings  of  this  kind  can  be  useful  if  they  will  only 
find  their  appropriate  sphere,  which  is  not  literature, 
but  that  circle  of  rough-and-tumble  political  life  where 
the  fine-fibred  men  are  at  a  discount,  where  epithets 
find  their  subjects  poison-proof,  and  the  sting  which 
would  be  fatal  to  a  literary  debutant  only  wakes  the 
eloquence  of  the  pachydermatous  ward-room  politician 
to  a  fiercer  shriek  of  declamation. 

The  Master  got  talking  the  other  day  about  the  dif- 
ference between  races  and  families.  I  am  reminded 
of  what  he  said  by  what  I  have  just  been  saying  my- 
self about  coarse-fibred  and  fine-fibred  people. 


276    THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

—  We  talk  about  a  Yankee,  a  New-Englander,  — 
he  said,  —  as  if  all  of  'em  were  just  the  same  kind  of 
animal.  "There  is  knowledge  and  knowledge,"  said 
John  Bunyan.  There  are  Yankees  and  Yankees. 
Do  you  know  two  native  trees  called  pitch  pine  and 
white  pine  respectively?  Of  course  you  know  'em. 
Well,  there  are  pitch-pine  Yankees  and  white-pine 
Yankees.  We  don't  talk  about  the  inherited  differ- 
ences of  men  quite  as  freely,  perhaps,  as  they  do  in 
the  Old  World,  but  republicanism  doesn't  alter  the 
laws  of  physiology.  We  have  a  native  aristocracy,  a 
superior  race,  just  as  plainly  marked  by  nature  as  of 
a  higher  and  finer  grade  than  the  common  run  of  peo- 
ple as  the  white  pine  is  marked  in  its  form,  its  stature, 
its  bark,  its  delicate  foliage,  as  belonging  to  the  no- 
bility of  the  forest;  and  the  pitch  pine,  stubbed, 
rough,  coarse-haired,  as  of  the  plebeian  order.  Only 
the  strange  thing  is  to  see  in  what  a  capricious  way 
our  natural  nobility  is  distributed.  The  last  born 
nobleman  I  have  seen,  I  saw  this  morning;  he  was 
pulling  a  rope  that  was  fastened  to  a  Maine  schooner 
loaded  with  lumber.  I  should  say  he  was  about 
twenty  years  old,  as  fine  a  figure  of  a  young  man  as 
you  would  ask  to  see,  and  with  a  regular  Greek  out- 
line of  countenance,  waving  hair,  that  fell  as  if  a 
sculptor  had  massed  it  to  copy,  and  a  complexion  as 
rich  as  a  red  sunset.  I  have  a  notion  that  the  State 
of  Maine  breeds  the  natural  nobility  in  a  larger  pro- 
portion than  some  other  States,  but  they  spring  up  in 
all  sorts  of  out-of-the-way  places.  The  young  fellow  I 
saw  this  morning  had  on  an  old  flannel  shirt,  a  pair  of 
trowsers  that  meant  hard  work,  and  a  cheap  cloth  cap 
pushed  back  on  his  head  so  as  to  let  the  large  waves 
of  hair  straggle  out  over  his  forehead ;  he  was  tugging 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.    277 

at  his  rope  with  the  other  sailors,  but  upon  my  word  I 
don't  think  I  have  seen  a  young  English  nobleman  of 
all  those  whom  I  have  looked  upon  that  answered  to 
the  notion  of  "blood"  so  well  as  this  young  fellow 
did.  I  suppose  if  I  made  such  a  levelling  confession 
as  this  in  public,  people  would  think  I  was  looking 
towards  being  the  labor-reform  candidate  for  Presi- 
dent. But  I  should  go  on  and  spoil  my  prospects  by 
saying  that  I  don't  think  the  white-pine  Yankee  is  the 
more  generally  prevailing  growth,  but  rather  the 
pitch-pine  Yankee. 

—  The  Member  of  the  Haouse  seemed  to  have  been 
getting  a  dim  idea  that  all  this  was  not  exactly  natter- 
ing to  the  huckleberry  districts.     His  features  betrayed 
the  growth  of  this  suspicion  so  clearly  that  the  Master 
replied  to  his  look  as  if  it  had  been  a  remark.     [I 
need  hardly  say  that  this  particular  member  of  the 
General  Court  was  a  pitch-pine  Yankee  of  the  most 
thoroughly  characterized  aspect  and  flavor.] 

—  Yes,  Sir,  —  the  Master  continued,  —  Sir  being 
anybody  that  listened,  —  there  is  neither  flattery  nor 
offence   in  the  views  which  a  physiological  observer 
takes  of  the  forms  of  life  around  him.     It  won't  do  to 
draw  individual  portraits,  but  the  differences  of  nat- 
ural groups  of  human  beings  are  as  proper  subjects  of 
remark  as  those  of  different  breeds  of  horses,  and  if 
horses  were  Houyhnhnms  I  don't  think  they  would 
quarrel  with  us  because  we  made  a  distinction  between 
a  "Morgan  "  and  a  "Messenger."     The  truth  is,  Sir, 
the  lean  sandy  soil  and  the  droughts  and  the  long 
winters  and  the  east-winds  and  the  cold  storms,  and 
all  sorts  of  unknown  local  influences  that  we  can't 
make  out  quite  so  plainly  as  these,  have  a  tendency 
to  roughen  the  human  organization  and  make  it  coarse, 


278    THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

something  as  it  is  with  the  tree  I  mentioned.  Some 
spots  and  some  strains  of  blood  fight  against  these 
influences,  but  if  I  should  say  right  out  what  I  think, 
it  would  be  that  the  finest  human  fruit,  on  the  whole, 
and  especially  the  finest  women  that  we  get  in  Ne\£ 
England  are  raised  under  glass. 

—  Good  gracious!  —  exclaimed   the   Landlady, — 
under  glass !  — 

—  Give  me  cowcumbers  raised  in  the  open  air,  — ~ 
said  the  Capitalist,  who  was  a  little  hard  of  hearing. 

—  Perhaps,  —  I  remarked,  —  it  might  be  as  well 
if   you  would  explain  this  last  expression  of  yours. 
Raising  human  beings  under  glass  I  take  to  be  a  met- 
aphorical  rather   than   a  literal  statement   of  your 
meaning.  — 

—  No,  Sir !  —  replied  the  Master,  with  energy,  —  I 
mean  just  what  I  say,  Sir.     Under  glass,  and  with  a 
south  exposure.     During  the  hard  season,  of  course, 
—  for  in  the  heats  of  summer  the  tenderest  hot-house 
plants  are  not  afraid  of  the  open  air.     Protection  is 
what   the  transplanted  Aryan  requires  in  this  New 
England   climate.     Keep   him,   and   especially   keep 
her,  in  a  wide  street  of  a  well-built  city  eight  months 
of  the  year ;  good  solid  brick  walls  behind  her,  good 
sheets   of    plate-glass,    with   the   sun   shining   warm 
through  them,  in  front  of  her,  and  you  have  put  her 
in  the  condition  of  the  pine-apple,  from  the  land  of 
which,  and  not  from  that  of  the  other  kind  of  pine, 
her  race  started  on  its  travels.     People  don't  know 
what  a  gain  there  is  to  health  by  living  in  cities,  the 
best  parts  of  them  of  course,  for  we  know  too  well 
what  the  worst  parts  are.     In  the  first  place  you  get 
rid  of  the  noxious  emanations  which  poison  so  many 
country  localities  with  typhoid  fever  and  dysentery; 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.    279 

not  wholly  rid  of  them,  of  course,  but  to  a  surprising 
degree.  Let  me  tell  you  a  doctor's  story.  I  was 
visiting  a  Western  city  a  good  many  years  ago ;  it  was 
in  the  autumn,  the  time  when  all  sorts  of  malarious 
diseases  are  about.  The  doctor  I  was  speaking  of 
took  me  to  see  the  cemetery  just  outside  the  town,  — 
I  don't  know  how  much  he  had  done  to  fill  it,  for  he 
didn't  tell  me,  but  I  '11  tell  you  what  he  did  say. 

"Look  round,"  said  the  doctor.  "There  is  n't  a 
house  in  all  the  ten-mile  circuit  of  country  you  can  see 
over,  where  there  is  n't  one  person,  at  least,  shaking 
with  fever  and  ague.  And  yet  you  need  n't  be  afraid 
of  carrying  it  away  with  you,  for  as  long  as  your 
home  is  on  a  paved  street  you  are  safe." 

—  I  think  it  likely  —  the  Master  went  on  to  say  — 
that  my  friend  the  doctor  put  it  pretty  strongly,  but 
there  is  no  doubt  at  all  that  while  all  the  country 
round  was  suffering  from  intermittent  fever,  the  paved 
part  of  the  city  was  comparatively  exempted.  What 
do  you  do  when  you  build  a  house  on  a  damp  soil,  — 
and  there  are  damp  soils  pretty  much  everywhere? 
Why  you  floor  the  cellar  with  cement,  don't  you? 
Well,  the  soil  of  a  city  is  cemented  all  over,  one  may 
say,  with  certain  qualifications  of  course.  A  first- 
rate  city  house  is  a  regular  sanatorium.  The  only 
trouble  is,  that  the  little  good-for-nothings  that  come 
of  utterly  used-up  and  worn-out  stock,  and  ought  to 
die,  can't  die,  to  save  their  lives.  So  they  grow  up 
to  dilute  the  vigor  of  the  race  with  skim-milk  vitality. 
They  would  have  died,  like  good  children,  in  most 
average  country  places ;  but  eight  months  of  shelter  in 
a  regulated  temperature,  in  a  well-sunned  house,  in  a 
duly  moistened  air,  with  good  sidewalks  to  go  about 
on  in  all  weather,  and  four  months  of  the  cream  of 


280    THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

summer  and  the  fresh  milk  of  Jersey  cows,  make  the 
little  sham  organizations  —  the  worm-eaten  wind-falls, 
for  that's  what  they  look  like  —  hang  on  to  the 
boughs  of  lifelike  "froze-n-thaws";  regular  struld- 
brugs  they  come  to  be,  a  good  many  of  'em. 

—  The  Scarabee's  ear  was  caught  by  that  queer  word 
of  Swift's,  and  he  asked  very  innocently  what  kind  of 
bugs  he  was  speaking  of,  whereupon  That  Boy  shouted 
out,  Straddlebugs !  to  his  own  immense  amusement 
and  the  great  bewilderment  of  the  Scarabee,  who  only 
saw  that  there  was  one  of  those  unintelligible  breaks 
in  the  conversation  which  made  other  people  laugh, 
and  drew  back  his  antennae  as  usual,  perplexed,  but 
not  amused. 

I  do  not  believe  the  Master  had  said  all  he  was 
going  to  say  on  this  subject,  and  of  course  all  these 
statements  of  his  are  more  or  less  one-sided.  But 
that  some  invalids  do  much  better  in  cities  than  in  the 
country  is  indisputable,  and  that  the  frightful  dysen- 
teries and  fevers  which  have  raged  like  pestilences  in 
many  of  our  country  towns  are  almost  unknown  in  the 
better  built  sections  of  some  of  our  large  cities  is  get- 
ting to  be  more  generally  understood  since  our  well- 
to-do  people  have  annually  emigrated  in  such  numbers 
from  the  cemented  surface  of  the  city  to  the  steaming 
soil  of  some  of  the  dangerous  rural  districts.  If  one 
should  contrast  the  healthiest  country  residences  with 
the  worst  city  ones  the  result  would  be  all  the  other 
way,  of  course,  so  that  there  are  two  sides  to  the  ques- 
tion, which  we  must  let  the  doctors  pound  in  their 
great  mortar,  infuse  and  strain,  hoping  that  they  will 
present  us  with  the  clear  solution  when  they  have  got 
through  these  processes.  One  of  our  chief  wants  is  a 
complete  sanitary  map  of  every  State  in  the  Union. 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.     281 

The  balance  of  our  table,  as  the  reader  has  no 
doubt  observed,  has  been  deranged  by  the  withdrawal 
of  the  Man  of  Letters,  so  called,  and  only  the  side  of 
the  deficiency  changed  by  the  removal  of  the  Young 
Astronomer  into  our  neighborhood.  The  fact  that 
there  was  a  vacant  chair  on  the  side  opposite  us  had 
by  no  means  escaped  the  notice  of  That  Boy.  He 
had  taken  advantage  of  his  opportunity  and  invited 
in  a  schoolmate  whom  he  evidently  looked  upon  as  a 
great  personage.  This  boy  or  youth  was  a  good  deal 
older  than  himself  and  stood  to  him  apparently  in  the 
light  of  a  patron  and  instructor  in  the  ways  of  life. 
A  very  jaunty,  knowing  young  gentleman  he  was, 
good-looking,  smartly  dressed,  smooth-cheeked  as  yet, 
curly -haired,  with  a  roguish  eye,  a  sagacious  wink,  a 
ready  tongue,  as  I  soon  found  out;  and  as  I  learned 
could  catch  a  ball  on  the  fly  with  any  boy  of  his  age ; 
not  quarrelsome,  but,  if  he  had  to  strike,  hit  from  the 
shoulder ;  the  pride  of  his  father  (who  was  a  man  of 
property  and  a  civic  dignitary),  and  answering  to  the 
name  of  Johnny. 

I  was  a  little  surprised  at  the  liberty  That  Boy  had 
taken  in  introducing  an  extra  peptic  element  at  our 
table,  reflecting  as  I  did  that  a  certain  number  of 
avoirdupois  ounces  of  nutriment  which  the  visitor 
would  dispose  of  corresponded  to  a  very  appreciable 
pecuniary  amount,  so  that  he  was  levying  a  contribu- 
tion upon  our  Landlady  which  she  might  be  inclined 
to  complain  of.  For  the  Caput  mortuum  (or  dead- 
head, in  vulgar  phrase)  is  apt  to  be  furnished  with  a 
Venter  vivus,  or,  as  we  may  say,  a  lively  appetite. 
But  the  Landlady  welcomed  the  new-comer  very 
heartily. 

—  Why!    how  —  do  —  you  —  do  —  Johnny?!  with 


282    THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

the  notes  of  interrogation  and  of  admiration  both  to- 
gether, as  here  represented. 

Johnny  signified  that  he  was  doing  about  as  well 
as  could  be  expected  under  the  circumstances,  having 
just  had  a  little  difference  with  a  young  person  whom 
he  spoke  of  as  "Pewter- jaw"  (I  suppose  he  had  worn 
a  dentist's  tooth-straightening  contrivance  during  his 
second  dentition),  which  youth  he  had  finished  off,  as 
he  said,  in  good  shape,  but  at  the  expense  of  a  slight  — 
epistaxis,  we  will  translate  his  vernacular  expression. 

—  The   three   ladies   all   looked   sympathetic,  but 
there  did  not  seem  to  be  any  great  occasion  for  it,  as 
the  boy  had  come  out  all  right,  and  seemed  to  be  in 
the  best  of  spirits. 

—  And  how  is  your  father  and  your  mother?  — 
asked  the  Landlady. 

—  Oh,  the  Governor  and  the  Head  Centre?     A  1, 
both  of  'em.     Prime  order  for  shipping,  —  warranted 
to  stand  any  climate.     The  Governor  says  he  weighs 
a  hunderd  and  seventy -five  pounds.     Got  a  chin-tuft 
just  like  Ed'in  Forrest.     D'd  y'  ever  see  Ed'in  For- 
rest play  Metamora?      Bully,  I  tell  you!     My  old 
gentleman  means  to  be  Mayor  or  Governor  or  Presi- 
dent or  something  or  other  before  he    goes  off  the 
handle,  you'd   better    b'lieve.     He 's    smart, — and 
I  've  heard  folks  say  I  take  after  him.  — 

—  Somehow  or  other  I  felt  as  if  I  had  seen  this 
boy  before,  or  known  something  about  him.     Where 
did  he  get  those  expressions  "A  1 "  and  "prime  "  and 
so  on?     They  must  have  come  from  somebody  who 
has  been  in  the  retail  dry -goods  business,  or  something 
of  that  nature.     I  have  certain  vague  reminiscences 
that  carry  me  back  to  the  early  times  of  this  boarding- 
house.  —  Johnny.  —  Landlady  knows  his  father  well. 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.    283 

—  Boarded  with  her,  no  doubt.  —  There  was  some- 
body by  the  name  of  John,  I  remember  perfectly  well, 
lived  with  her.  I  remember  both  my  friends  men- 
tioned him,  one  of  them  very  often.  I  wonder  if  this 
boy  is  n't  a  son  of  his !  I  asked  the  Landlady  after 
breakfast  whether  this  was  not,  as  I  had  suspected, 
the  son  of  that  former  boarder. 

—  To  be  sure  he  is,  —  she  answered,  —  and  jest 
such  a  good-natur'd  sort  of  creatur'  as  his  father  was. 
I  always  liked  John,  as  we  used  to  call  his  father. 
He  did  love  fun,  but  he  was  a  good  soul,  and  stood 
by  me  when  I  was  in  trouble,  always.  He  went  into 
business  on  his  own  account  after  a  while,  and  got 
merried,  and  settled  down  into  a  family  man.  They 
tell  me  he  is  an  amazing  smart  business  man,  —  grown 
wealthy,  and  his  wife's  father  left  her  money.  But  I 
can't  help  calling  him  John,  —  law,  we  never  thought 
of  calling  him  anything  else,  and  he  always  laughs 
and  says,  "That 's  right."  This  is  his  oldest  son,  and 
everybody  calls  him  Johnny.  That  Boy  of  ours  goes 
to  the  same  school  with  his  boy,  and  thinks  there 
never  was  anybody  like  him,  —  you  see  there  was  a  boy 
undertook  to  impose  on  our  boy,  and  Johnny  gave  the 
other  boy  a  good  licking,  and  ever  since  that  he  is  al- 
ways wanting  to  have  Johnny  round  with  him  and 
bring  him  here  with  him,  —  and  when  those  two  boys 
get  together,  there  never  was  boys  that  was  so  chock 
full  of  fun  and  sometimes  mischief,  but  not  very  bad 
mischief,  as  those  two  boys  be.  But  I  like  to  have 
him  come  once  in  a  while  when  there  is  room  at  the 
table,  as  there  is  now,  for  it  puts  me  in  mind  of  the 
old  times,  when  my  old  boarders  was  all  round  me, 
that  I  used  to  think  so  much  of,  —  not  that  my  board- 
ers that  I  have  now  a'nt  very  nice  people,  but  I  did 


284    THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

think  a  dreadful  sight  of  the  gentleman  that  made  that 
first  book;  it  helped  me  on  in  the  world  more  than 
ever  he  knew  of,  —  for  it  was  as  good  as  one  of  them 
Brandreth's  pills  advertisements,  and  did  n't  cost  me 
a  cent,  and  that  young  lady  he  merried  too,  she  was 
nothing  but  a  poor  young  schoolma'am  when  she  come 
to  my  house,  and  now  —  and  she  deserved  it  all  too, 
for  she  was  always  just  the  same,  rich  or  poor,  and 
she  isn't  a  bit  prouder  now  she  wears  a  camel' s-hair 
shawl,  than  she  was  when  I  used  to  lend  her  a  woollen 
one  to  keep  her  poor  dear  little  shoulders  warm  when 
she  had  to  go  out  and  it  was  storming,  —  and  then 
there  was  that  old  gentleman,  —  I  can't  speak  about 
him,  for  I  never  knew  how  good  he  was  till  his  will 
was  opened,  and  then  it  was  too  late  to  thank 
him.  .  .  . 

I  respected  the  feeling  which  caused  the  interval  of 
silence,  and  found  my  own  eyes  moistened  as  I  re- 
membered how  long  it  was  since  that  friend  of  ours 
was  sitting  in  the  chair  where  I  now  sit,  and  what  a 
tidal  wave  of  change  has  swept  over  the  world  and 
more  especially  over  this  great  land  of  ours,  since  he 
opened  his  lips  and  found  so  many  kind  listeners. 

The  Young  Astronomer  has  read  us  another  extract 
from  his  manuscript.  I  ran  my  eye  over  it,  and  so 
far  as  I  have  noticed  it  is  correct  enough  in  its  versifi- 
cation. I  suppose  we  are  getting  gradually  over  our 
hemispherical  provincialism,  which  allowed  a  set  of 
monks  to  pull  their  hoods  over  our  eyes  and  tell  us 
there  was  no  meaning  in  any  religious  symbolism  but 
our  own.  If  I  am  mistaken  about  this  advance  I 
am  very  glad  to  print  the  young  man's  somewhat  out- 
spoken lines  to  help  us  in  that  direction. 


THE  POET   AT   THE   BREAKFAST-TABLE.  285 

WIND-CLOUDS  AND   STAR-DRIFTS. 

VI. 

The  time  is  racked  with  birth-pangs  ;  every  hour 
Brings  forth  some  gasping  truth,  and  truth  new-bora 
Looks  a  misshapen  and  untimely  growth, 
The  terror  of  the  household  and  its  shame, 
A  monster  coiling  in  its  nurse's  lap 
That  some  would  strangle,  some  would  only  starve  ; 
But  still  it  breathes,  and  passed  from  hand  to  hand, 
And  suckled  at  a  hundred  half -clad  breasts, 
Comes  slowly  to  its  stature  and  its  form, 
Calms  the  rough  ridges  of  its  dragon-scales, 
Changes  to  shining  locks  its  snaky  hair, 
And  moves  transfigured  into  angel  guise, 
Welcomed  by  all  that  cursed  its  hour  of  birth, 
And  folded  in  the  same  encircling  arms 
That  cast  it  like  a  serpent  from  their  hold ! 

If  thou  wouldst  live  in  honor,  die  in  peace, 
Have  the  fine  words  the  marble-workers  learn 
To  carve  so  well,  upon  thy  funeral-stone, 
And  earn  a  fair  obituary,  dressed 
In  all  the  many-colored  robes  of  praise, 
Be  deafer  than  the  adder  to  the  cry 
Of  that  same  foundling  truth,  until  it  grows 
To  seemly  favor,  and  at  length  has  won 
The  smiles  of  hard-mouthed  men  and  light-lipped  dames  ; 
Then  snatch  it  from  its  meagre  nurse's  breast, 
Fold  it  in  silk  and  give  it  food  from  gold  ; 
So  shalt  thou  share  its  glory  when  at  last 
It  drops  its  mortal  vesture,  and  revealed 
In  all  the  splendor  of  its  heavenly  form, 
Spreads  on  the  startled  air  its  mighty  wings  ! 

Alas  !  how  much  that  seemed  immortal  truth 
That  heroes  fought  for,  martyrs  died  to  save, 
Reveals  its  earth-born  lineage,  growing  old 
And  limping  in  its  march,  its  wings  unplumed, 
Its  heavenly  semblance  faded  like  a  dream  I 


286    THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

Here  in  this  painted  casket,  just  unsealed, 
Lies  what  was  once  a  breathing  shape  like  thine, 
Once  loved  as  thou  art  loved  ;  there  beamed  the  eyes 
That  looked  on  Memphis  in  its  hour  of  pride, 
That  saw  the  walls  of  hundred-gated  Thebes, 
And  all  the  mirrored  glories  of  the  Nile. 
See  how  they  toiled  that  all-consuming  time 
Might  leave  the  frame  immortal  in  its  tomb; 
Filled  it  with  fragrant  balms  and  odorous  gums 
That  still  diffuse  their  sweetness  through  the  air, 
And  wound  and  wound  with  patient  fold  on  fold 
The  flaxen  bands  thy  hand  has  rudely  torn ! 
Perchance  thou  yet  canst  see  the  faded  stain 
Of  the  sad  mourner's  tear. 

But  what  is  this  ? 

The  sacred  beetle,  bound  upon  the  breast 
Of  the  blind  heathen  !     Snatch  the  curious  prize. 
Give  it  a  place  among  thy  treasured  spoils 
Fossil  and  relic,  —  corals,  encrinites, 
The  fly  in  amber  and  the  fish  in  stone, 
The  twisted  circlet  of  Etruscan  gold, 
Medal,  intaglio,  poniard,  poison-ring,  — 
Place  for  the  Memphian  beetle  with  thine  hoard ! 

Ah  !  longer  than  thy  creed  has  blest  the  world 
This  toy,  thus  ravished  from  thy  brother's  breast, 
Was  to  the  heart  of  Mizraim  as  divine, 
As  holy,  as  the  symbol  that  we  lay 
On  the  still  bosom  of  our  white-robed  dead, 
And  raise  above  their  dust  that  all  may  know 
Here  sleeps  an  heir  of  glory.     Loving  friends, 
With  tears  of  trembling  faith  and  choking  sobs, 
And  prayers  to  those  who  judge  of  mortal  deeds, 
Wrapped  this  poor  image  in  the  cerement's  fold 
That  Isis  and  Osiris,  friends  of  man, 
Might  know  their  own  and  claim  the  ransomed  soul. 

An  idol  ?     Man  was  born  to  worship  such  ! 
An  idol  is  an  image  of  his  thought  ; 
Sometimes  he  carves  it  out  of  gleaming  stone, 
And  sometimes  moulds  it  out  of  glittering  gold, 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.    287 

Or  rounds  it  in  a  mighty  frescoed  dome, 
Or  lifts  it  heavenward  in  a  lofty  spire, 
Or  shapes  it  in  a  cunning  frame  of  words, 
Or  pays  his  priest  to  make  it  day  by  day; 
For  sense  must  have  its  god  as  well  as  soul; 
A  new-born  Dian  calls  for  silver  shrines, 
And  Egypt's  holiest  symbol  is  our  own, 
The  sign  we  worship  as  did  they  of  old 
When  Isis  and  Osiris  ruled  the  world. 

Let  us  be  true  to  our  most  subtle  selves, 
We  long  to  have  our  idols  like  the  rest. 
Think  !  when  the  men  of  Israel  had  their  God 
Encamped  among  them,  talking  with  their  chief, 
Leading  them  in  the  pillar  of  the  cloud 
And  watching  o'er  them  in  the  shaft  of  fire, 
They  still  must  have  an  image  ;  still  they  longed 
For  somewhat  of  substantial,  solid  form 
Whereon  to  hang  their  garlands,  and  to  fix 
Their  wandering  thoughts,  and  gain  a  stronger  hold 
For  their  uncertain  faith,  not  yet  assured 
If  those  same  meteors  of  the  day  and  night 
Were  not  mere  exhalations  of  the  soil. 

Are  we  less  earthly  than  the  chosen  race  ? 
Are  we  more  neighbors  of  the  living  God 
Than  they  who  gathered  manna  every  morn, 
Reaping  where  none  had  sown,  and  heard  the  voice 
Of  him  who  met  the  Highest  in  the  mount, 
And  brought  them  tables,  graven  with  His  hand  ? 
Yet  these  must  have  their  idol,  brought  their  gold, 
That  star-browed  Apis  might  be  god  again  ; 
Yea,  from  their  ears  the  women  brake  the  rings 
That  lent  such  splendors  to  the  gypsy  brown 
Of  sunburnt  cheeks,  —  what  more  could  woman  do 
To  show  her  pious  zeal  ?     They  went  astray, 
But  nature  led  them  as  it  leads  us  all. 

We  too,  who  mock  at  Israel's  golden  calf 
And  scoff  at  Egypt's  sacred  scarabee, 
Would  have  our  amulets  to  clasp  and  kiss, 
And  flood  with  rapturous  tears,  and  bear  with  us 
To  be  our  dear  companions  in  the  dust, 
Such  magic  works  an  image  in  our  souls  ! 


288    THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

Man  is  an  embryo  ;  see  at  twenty  years 
His  bones,  the  columns  that  uphold  his  frame 
Not  yet  cemented,  shaft  and  capital, 
Mere  fragments  of  the  temple  incomplete. 
At  twoscore,  threescore,  is  he  then  full  grown  ? 
Nay,  still  a  child,  and  as  the  little  maids 
Dress  and  undress  their  puppets,  so  he  tries 
To  dress  a  lifeless  creed,  as  if  it  lived, 
And  change  its  raiment  when  the  world  cries  shame  f 

We  smile  to  see  our  little  ones  at  play 
So  grave,  so  thoughtful,  with  maternal  care 
Nursing  the  wisps  of  rags  they  call  their  babes  ;  — 
Does  He  not  smile  who  sees  us  with  the  toys 
We  call  by  sacred  names,  and  idly  feign 
To  be  what  we  have  called  them  ?     He  is  still 
The  Father  of  this  helpless  nursery-brood, 
Whose  second  childhood  joins  so  close  its  first, 
That  in  the  crowding,  hurrying  years  between 
We  scarce  have  trained  our  senses  to  their  task 
Before  the  gathering  mist  has  dimmed  our  eyes, 
And  with  our  hollowed  palm  we  help  our  ear, 
And  trace  with  trembling  hand  our  wrinkled  names, 
And  then  begin  to  tell  our  stories  o'er, 
And  see  —  not  hear  —  the  whispering  lips  that  say, 

"  You  know ?    Your  father  knew  him.  —  This  is  he, 

Tottering  and  leaning  on  the  hireling's  arm,"  — 
And  so,  at  length,  disrobed  of  all  that  clad 
The  simple  life  we  share  with  weed  and  worm, 
Go  to  our  cradles,  naked  as  we  came. 


XI. 

I  suppose  there  would  have  been  even  more  remarks 
Upon  the  growing  intimacy  of  the  Young  Astronomer 
and  his  pupil,  if  the  curiosity  of  the  boarders  had  not 
in  the  mean  time  been  so  much  excited  at  the  appar- 
ently close  relation  which  had  sprung  up  between  the 
Register  of  Deeds  and  the  Lady.  It  was  really  hard 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.    289 

to  tell  what  to  make  of  it.  The  Register  appeared  at 
the  table  in  a  new  coat.  Suspicious.  The  Lady  was 
evidently  deeply  interested  in  him,  if  we  could  judge 
by  the  frequency  and  the  length  of  their  interviews. 
On  at  least  one  occasion  he  has  brought  a  lawyer  with 
him,  which  naturally  suggested  the  idea  that  there 
were  some  property  arrangements  to  be  attended  to, 
in  case,  as  seems  probable  against  all  reasons  to  the 
contrary,  these  two  estimable  persons,  so  utterly  un- 
fitted, as  one  would  say,  to  each  other,  contemplated 
an  alliance.  It  is  no  pleasure  to  me  to  record  an  ar- 
rangement of  this  kind.  I  frankly  confess  I  do  not 
know  what  to  make  of  it.  With  her  tastes  and  breed- 
ing, it  is  the  last  thing  that  I  should  have  thought  of, 
—  her  uniting  herself  with  this  most  commonplace 
and  mechanical  person,  who  cannot  even  offer  her  the 
elegances  and  luxuries  to  which  she  might  seem  enti- 
tled on  changing  her  condition. 

While  I  was  thus  interested  and  puzzled  I  received 
an  unexpected  visit  from  our  Landlady.  She  was 
evidently  excited,  and  by  some  event  which  was  of  a 
happy  nature,  for  her  countenance  was  beaming  and 
she  seemed  impatient  to  communicate  what  she  had 
to  tell.  Impatient  or  not,  she  must  wait  a  moment, 
while  I  say  a  word  about  her.  Our  Landlady  is  as 
good  a  creature  as  ever  lived.  She  is  a  little  negli- 
gent of  grammar  at  times,  and  will  get  a  wrong  word 
now  and  then ;  she  is  garrulous,  circumstantial,  asso- 
ciates facts  by  their  accidental  cohesion  rather  than  by 
their  vital  affinities,  is  given  to  choking  and  tears  on 
slight  occasions,  but  she  has  a  warm  heart,  and  feels  to 
her  boarders  as  if  they  were  her  blood-relations. 

She  began  her  conversation  abruptly.  —  I  expect 
I  'm  a  going  to  lose  one  of  my  boarders,  —  she  said. 


290     THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

—  You  don't  seem  very  unhappy  about  it,  madam, 
—  I  answered.  —  We  all  took  it  easily  when  the  per- 
son who  sat  on  our  side  of  the  table  quitted  us  in  such 
a  hurry,  but  I  do  not  think  there  is  anybody  left  that 
either  you  or  the  boarders  want  to  get  rid  of  —  unless 
it  is  myself,  —  I  added  modestly. 

—  You  !    said   the   Landlady  —  you !     No   indeed. 
When  I  have  a  quiet  boarder  that  's  a  small  eater,  I 
don't  want  to  lose  him.    You  don't  make  trouble,  you 
don't  find  fault  with  your  vit  —  [Dr.  Benjamin  had 
schooled  his  parent  on  this  point  and  she  altered  the 
word]  with  your  food,  and  you  know  when  you  've 
had  enough. 

—  I  really  felt  proud  of  this  eulogy,  which  embraces 
the  most  desirable  excellences  of  a  human  being  in  the 
capacity  of  boarder. 

The  Landlady  began  again.  —  I  'm  going  to  lose  — 
at  least,  I  suppose  I  shall  —  one  of  the  best  boarders 
I  ever  had,  — that  Lady  that 's  been  with  me  so  long. 

—  I  thought  there  was  something  going  on  between 
her  and  the  Register,  —  I  said. 

—  Something !     I  should  think  there  was !     About 
three  months  ago  he  began  making  her  acquaintance. 
I  thought  there  was  something  particular.     I  did  n't 
quite  like  to  watch  'em  very  close,  but  I  could  n't  help 
overhearing  some  of  the  things  he  said  to  her,  for, 
you  see,  he  used  to  follow  her  up  into  the  parlor,  — 
they  talked  pretty  low,  but  I  could  catch  a  word  now 
and  then.     I  heard  him  say  something  to  her  one  day 
about  "bettering  her  condition,"  and  she  seemed  to  be 
thinking  very  hard  about  it,  and  turning  of  it  over  in 
her  mind,  and  I  said  to  myself,  She  does  n't  want  to 
take  up  with  him,  but  she  feels  dreadful  poor,  and 
perhaps  he  has  been  saving  and  has  got  money  in  the 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.    291 

bank,  and  she  does  n't  want  to  throw  away  a  chance  of 
bettering  herself  without  thinking  it  over.  But  dear 
me,  —  says  I  to  myself,  —  to  think  of  her  walking  up 
the  broad  aisle  into  meeting  alongside  of  such  a 
homely,  rusty-looking  creatur'  as  that !  But  there  's 
no  telling  what  folks  will  do  when  poverty  has  got 
hold  of  'em. 

—  Well,  so  I  thought  she  was  waiting  to  make  up 
her  mind,  and  he  was  hanging  on  in  hopes  she  'd  come 
round  at  last,  as  women  do  half  the  time,  for  they 
don't  know  their  own  minds  and  the  wind  blows  both 
ways  at  once  with  'em  as  the  smoke  blows  out  of  the 
tall  chimlies, — east, out  of  this  one  and  west  out  of 
that,  —  so  it 's  no  use  looking  at  'em  to  know  what 
the  weather  is. 

—  But  yesterday  she  comes  up  to  me  after  break- 
fast, and  asks  me  to  go  up  with  her  into  her  little 
room.     Now,  says  I  to  myself,    I  shall  hear  all  about 
it.     I  saw  she  looked  as  if  she  'd  got  some  of  her 
trouble  off  her  mind,  and  I  guessed  that  it  was  set- 
tled, and  so,  says  I  to  myself,  I  must  wish  her  joy  and 
hope  it 's  all  for  the  best,  whatever  I  thLik  about  it. 

—  Well,  she  asked  me  to  set  down,  and  then  she 
begun.     She  said  that  she  was  expecting  to  have  a 
change  in  her  condition  of  life,  and  had  asked  me 
up  so  that  I  might  have  the  first  news  of  it.     I  am 
sure  —  says  I  —  I  wish  you  both  joy.     Merriage  is 
a  blessed  thing  when  folks  is  well  sorted,  and  it  is  an 
honorable  thing,  and  the  first  meracle  was  at  the  mer- 
riage  in  Canaan.     It  brings  a  great  sight  of  happiness 
with  it,  as  I '  ve  had  a  chance  of  knowing,  for  my  — 
hus  — 

The    Landlady    showed    her    usual    tendency  to 
"break"  from  the  conversational  pace  just   at  this 


292    THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

point,  but   managed   to   rein   in  the  rebellious   dia- 
phragm, and  resumed  her  narrative. 

—  Merriage !  —  says  she,  —  pray  who  has  said  any- 
thing about  merriage  ?  — 

—  I    beg    your     pardon,     ma'am, — says    I, — I 
thought  you  had  spoke  of  changing  your  condition, 
and  I  —     She  looked  so  I  stopped  right  short. 

—  Don't  say  another  word,  says  she,  but  jest  listen 
to  what  I  am  going  to  tell  you. 

—  My  friend,  says  she,  that  you  have  seen  with  me 
so  often  lately,  was  hunting  among  his  old  Record 
books,  when  all  at  once  he  come  across  an  old  deed 
that  was  made  by  somebody  that  had  my  family  name. 
He  took  it  into  his  head  to  read  it  over,  and  he  found 
there  was  some  kind  of  a  condition  that  if  it  was  n't 
kept,  the  property  would  all  go  back  to  them  that 
was  the  heirs  of  the  one  that  gave  the  deed,  and  that 
he  found  out  was  me.     Something  or  other  put  it  into 
his  head,  says  she,  that  the  company  that  owned  the 
property  —  it  was  ever  so  rich  a  company  and  owned 
land  all  round  everywhere  —  had  n't  kept  to  the  con- 
ditions.    So  ne  went  to  work,  says  she,  and  hunted 
through  his  books  and  he  inquired  all  round,  and  he 
found  out  pretty  much  all  about  it,  and  at  last  he 
come  to  me  —  it's  my  boarder,  you  know,  that  says 
all  this  —  and  says  he,  Ma'am,  says  he,  if  you  have 
any  kind  of  fancy  for  being  a  rich  woman  you  've 
only  got  to  say  so.     I  did  n't  know  what  he  meant, 
and  I  began  to  think,  says  she,  he  must  be  crazy. 
But  he  explained  it  all  to  me,  how  I  'd  nothing  to  do 
but  go  to  court  and  I  could  get  a  sight  of  property 
back.     Well,  so  she  went  on  telling  me  —  there  was 
ever  so  much  more  that  I  suppose  was  all  plain  enough, 
but  I  don't  remember  it  all  —  only  I  know  my  boarder 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.    293 

was  a  good  deal  worried  at  first  at  the  thought  of  tak- 
ing money  that  other  people  thought  was  theirs,  and 
the  Register  he  had  to  talk  to  her,  and  he  brought  a 
lawyer  and  he  talked  to  her,  and  her  friends  they 
talked  to  her,  and  the  upshot  of  it  all  was  that  the 
company  agreed  to  settle  the  business  by  paying  her, 
well,  I  don't  know  just  how  much,  but  enough  to  make 
her  one  of  the  rich  folks  again. 

I  may  as  well  add  here  that,  as  I  have  since  learned, 
this  is  one  of  the  most  important  cases  of  releasing 
right  of  reentry  for  condition  broken  which  has  been 
settled  by  arbitration  for  a  considerable  period.  If  I 
am  not  mistaken  the  Register  of  Deeds  will  get  some- 
thing more  than  a  new  coat  out  of  this  business,  for 
the  Lady  very  justly  attributes  her  change  of  fortunes 
to  his  sagacity  and  his  activity  in  following  up  the 
hint  he  had  come  across  by  mere  accident. 

So  my  supernumerary  fellow-boarder,  whom  I 
would  have  dispensed  with  as  a  cumberer  of  the  table, 
has  proved  a  ministering  angel  to  one  of  the  personages 
whom  I  most  cared  for. 

One  would  have  thought  that  the  most  scrupulous 
person  need  not  have  hesitated  in  asserting  an  unques- 
tioned legal  and  equitable  claim  simply  because  it  had 
lain  a  certain  number  of  years  in  abeyance.  But  be- 
fore the  Lady  could  make  up  her  mind  to  accept  her 
good  fortune  she  had  been  kept  awake  many  nights  in 
doubt  and  inward  debate  whether  she  should  avail 
herself  of  her  rights.  If  it  had  been  private  property, 
so  that  another  person  must  be  made  poor  that  she 
should  become  rich,  she  would  have  lived  and  died  in 
want  rather  than  claim  her  own.  I  do  not  think  any 
of  us  would  like  to  turn  out  the  possessor  of  a  fine 


294    THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

estate  enjoyed  for  two  or  three  generations  on  the 
faith  of  unquestioned  ownership  by  making  use  of 
some  old  forgotten  instrument,  which  accident  had 
thrown  in  our  way. 

But  it  was  all  nonsense  to  indulge  in  any  sentiment 
in  a  case  like  this,  where  it  was  not  only  a  right,  but 
a  duty  which  she  owed  herself  and  others  in  relation 
with  her,  to  accept  what  Providence,  as  it  appeared, 
had  thrust  upon  her,  and  when  no  suffering  would  be 
occasioned  to  anybody.  Common  sense  told  her  not 
to  refuse  it.  So  did  several  of  her  rich  friends,  who 
remembered  about  this  time  that  they  had  not  called 
upon  her  for  a  good  while,  and  among  them  Mrs. 
Midas  Goldenrod. 

Never  had  that  lady's  carriage  stood  before  the  door 
of  our  boarding-house  so  long,  never  had  it  stopped  so 
often,  as  since  the  revelation  which  had  come  from  the 
Registry  of  Deeds.  Mrs.  Midas  Goldenrod  was  not 
a  bad  woman,  but  she  loved  and  hated  in  too  exclusive 
and  fastidious  a  way  to  allow  us  to  consider  her  as 
representing  the  highest  ideal  of  womanhood.  She 
hated  narrow  ill- ventilated  courts,  where  there  was 
nothing  to  see  if  one  looked  out  of  the  window  but  old 
men  in  dressing-gowns  and  old  women  in  caps;  she 
hated  little  dark  rooms  with  air-tight  stoves  in  them; 
she  hated  rusty  bombazine  gowns  and  last  year's  bon- 
nets ;  she  hated  gloves  that  were  not  as  fresh  as  new- 
laid  eggs,  and  shoes  that  had  grown  bulgy  and  wrin- 
kled in  service;  she  hated  common  crockery-ware  and 
teaspoons  of  slight  constitution;  she  hated  second  ap- 
pearances on  the  dinner-table ;  she  hated  coarse  nap- 
kins and  table-cloths ;  she  hated  to  ride  in  the  horse- 
cars;  she  hated  to  walk  except  for  short  distances, 
when  she  was  tired  of  sitting  in  her  carriage.  She 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.    295 

loved  with  sincere  and  undisguised  affection  a  spacious 
city  mansion  and  a  charming  country  villa,  with  a 
seaside  cottage  for  a  couple  of  months  or  so ;  she  loved 
a  perfectly  appointed  household,  a  cook  who  was  up  to 
all  kinds  of  salmis  and  vol-an-vents,  a  French  maid, 
and  a  stylish-looking  coachman,  and  the  rest  of  the 
people  necessary  to  help  one  live  in  a  decent  manner ; 
she  loved  pictures  that  other  people  said  were  first- 
rate,  and  which  had  at  least  cost  first-rate  prices ;  she 
loved  books  with  handsome  backs,  in  showy  cases ;  she 
loved  heavy  and  richly  wought  plate ;  fine  linen  and 
plenty  of  it;  dresses  from  Paris  frequently,  and  as 
many  as  could  be  got  in  without  troubling  the  custom- 
house; Russia  sables  and  Venetian  point-lace;  dia- 
monds, and  good  big  ones;  and,  speaking  generally, 
she  loved  dear  things  in  distinction  from  cheap  ones, 
the  real  article  and  not  the  economical  substitute. 

For  the  life  of  me  I  cannot  see  anything  Satanic  in 
all  this.  Tell  me,  Beloved,  only  between  ourselves, 
if  some  of  these  things  are  not  desirable  enough  in 
their  way,  and  if  you  and  I  could  not  make  up  our 
minds  to  put  up  with  some  of  the  least  objectionable 
of  them  without  any  great  inward  struggle  ?  Even  in 
the  matter  of  ornaments  there  is  something  to  be  said. 
"Why  should  we  be  told  that  the  New  Jerusalem  is 
paved  with  gold,  and  that  its  twelve  gates  are  each  of 
them  a  pearl,  and  that  its  foundations  are  garnished 
with  sapphires  and  emeralds  and  all  manner  of  pre- 
cious stones,  if  these  are  not  among  the  most  desirable 
of  objects?  And  is  there  anything  very  strange  in 
the  fact  that  many  a  daughter  of  earth  finds  it  a  sweet 
foretaste  of  heaven  to  wear  about  her  frail  earthly 
tabernacle  these  glittering  reminders  of  the  celestial 
city? 


296    THE  POET  AT  THE  BKEAKFAST-TABLE. 

Mrs.  Midas  Goldenrod  was  not  so  entirely  peculiar 
and  anomalous  in  her  likes  and  dislikes;  the  only 
trouble  was  that  she  mixed  up  these  accidents  of  life 
too  much  with  life  itself,  which  is  so  often  serenely  or 
actively  noble  and  happy  without  reference  to  them. 
She  valued  persons  chiefly  according  to  their  external 
conditions,  and  of  course  the  very  moment  her  rela- 
tive, the  Lady  of  our  breakfast-table,  began  to  find 
herself  in  a  streak  of  sunshine  she  came  forward  with 
a  lighted  candle  to  show  her  which  way  her  path  lay 
before  her. 

The  Lady  saw  all  this,  how  plainly,  how  painfully ! 
yet  she  exercised  a  true  charity  for  the  weakness  of 
her  relative.  Sensible  people  have  as  much  consider- 
ation for  the  frailties  of  the  rich  as  for  those  of  the 
poor.  There  is  a  good  deal  of  excuse  for  them. 
Even  you  and  I,  philosophers  and  philanthropists  as 
we  may  think  ourselves,  have  a  dislike  for  the  en- 
forced economies,  proper  and  honorable  though  they 
certainly  are,  of  those  who  are  two  or  three  degrees 
below  us  in  the  scale  of  agreeable  living. 

—  These  are  very  worthy  persons  you  have  been 
living  with,  my  dear,  — said  Mrs.  Midas  —  [the  "My 
dear  "  was  an  expression  which  had  flowered  out  more 
luxuriantly  than  ever  before  in  the  new  streak  of 
sunshine]  —  eminently  respectable  parties,  I  have  no 
question,  but  then  we  shall  want  you  to  move  as  soon 
as  possible  to  our  quarter  of  the  town,  where  we  can 
see  more  of  you  than  we  have  been  able  to  in  this 
queer  place. 

It  was  not  very  pleasant  to  listen  to  this  kind  of 
talk,  but  the  Lady  remembered  her  annual  bouquet, 
and  her  occasional  visits  from  the  rich  lady,  and  re- 
strained the  inclination  to  remind  her  of  the  humble 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.     297 

sphere  from  which  she  herself,  the  rich  and  patroniz- 
ing personage,  had  worked  her  way  up  (if  it  was  up) 
into  that  world  which  she  seemed  to  think  was  the 
only  one  where  a  human  being  could  find  life  worth 
having.  Her  cheek  flushed  a  little,  however,  as  she 
said  to  Mrs.  Midas  that  she  felt  attached  to  the  place 
where  she  had  been  living  so  long.  She  doubted,  she 
was  pleased  to  say,  whether  she  should  find  better 
company  in  any  circle  she  was  like  to  move  in  than 
she  left  behind  her  at  our  boarding-house.  I  give  the 
old  Master  the  credit  of  this  compliment.  If  one  does 
not  agree  with  half  of  what  he  says,  at  any  rate  he 
always  has  something  to  say,  and  entertains  and  lets 
out  opinions  and  whims  and  notions  of  one  kind  and 
another  that  one  can  quarrel  with  if  he  is  out  of 
humor,  or  carry  away  to  think  about  if  he  happens  to 
be  in  the  receptive  mood. 

But  the  Lady  expressed  still  more  strongly  the 
regret  she  should  feel  at  leaving  her  young  friend,  our 
Scheherezade.  I  cannot  wonder  at  this.  The  Young 
Girl  has  lost  what  little  playfulness  she  had  in  the 
earlier  months  of  my  acquaintance  with  her.  I  often 
read  her  stories  partly  from  my  interest  in  her,  and 
partly  because  I  find  merit  enough  in  them  to  deserve 
something  better  than  the  rough  handling  they  got 
from  her  coarse-fibred  critic,  whoever  he  was.  I  see 
evidence  that  her  thoughts  are  wandering  from  her 
task,  that  she  has  fits  of  melancholy,  and  bursts  of 
tremulous  excitement,  and  that  she  has  as  much  as  she 
can  do  to  keep  herself  at  all  to  her  stated,  inevitable, 
and  sometimes  almost  despairing  literary  labor.  I 
have  had  some  acquaintance  with  vital  phenomena  of 
this  kind,  and  know  something  of  the  nervous  nature 
of  young  women  and  its  "magnetic  storms,"  if  I  may 


298     THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

borrow  an  expression  from  the  physicists,  to  indicate 
the  perturbations  to  which  they  are  liable.  She  is 
more  in  need  of  friendship  and  counsel  now  than  ever 
before,  it  seems  to  me,  and  I  cannot  bear  to  think 
that  the  Lady,  who  has  become  like  a  mother  to  her, 
is  to  leave  her  to  her  own  guidance. 

It  is  plain  enough  what  is  at  the  bottom  of  this  dis- 
turbance. The  astronomical  lessons  she  has  been  tak- 
ing  have  become  interesting  enough  to  absorb  too 
much  of  her  thoughts,  and  she  finds  them  wandering 
to  the  stars  or  elsewhere,  when  they  should  be  work- 
ing quietly  in  the  editor's  harness. 

The  Landlady  has  her  own  views  on  this  matter 
which  she  communicated  to  me  something  as  fol- 
lows :  — 

—  I  don't  quite  like  to  tell  folks  what  a  lucky  place 
my  boarding-house  is,  for  fear  I  should  have  all  sorts 
of  people  crowding  in  to  be  my  boarders  for  the  sake 
of  their  chances.  Folks  come  here  poor  and  they  go 
away  rich.  Young  women  come  here  without  a 
friend  in  the  world,  and  the  next  thing  that  happens 
is  a  gentleman  steps  up  to  'em  and  says,  "If  you'll 
take  me  for  your  pardner  for  life,  I  '11  give  you  a 
good  home  and  love  you  ever  so  much  besides";  and 
off  goes  my  young  lady-boarder  into  a  fine  three-story 
house,  as  grand  as  the  governor's  wife,  with  every- 
thing to  make  her  comfortable,  and  a  husband  to  care 
for  her  into  the  bargain.  That 's  the  way  it  is  with 
the  young  ladies  that  comes  to  board  with  me,  ever 
since  the  gentleman  that  wrote  the  first  book  that  ad- 
vertised my  establishment  (and  never  charged  me  a 
cent  for  it  neither)  merried  the  Schoolma'am.  And 
I  think  —  but  that 's  between  you  and  me  —  that  it 's 
going  to  be  the  same  thing  right  over  again  between 


THE   POET   AT   THE   BREAKFAST-TABLE.  299 

that  young  gentleman  and  this  young  girl  here  —  if 
she  doos  n't  kill  herself  with  writing  for  them  news- 
papers, —  it 's  too  bad  they  don't  pay  her  more  for 
writing  her  stories,  for  I  read  one  of  'em  that  made 
me  cry  so  the  Doctor  —  mj  Doctor  Benjamin  —  said, 
"Ma,  what  makes  your  eyes  look  so?  "  and  wanted  to 
rig  a  machine  up  and  look  at  'em,  but  I  told  him 
what  the  matter  was,  and  that  he  needn't  fix  up  his 
peeking  contrivances  on  my  account,  —  anyhow  she  's 
a  nice  young  woman  as  ever  lived,  and  as  industrious 
with  that  pen  of  hers  as  if  she  was  at  work  with  a 
sewing-machine,  —  and  there  ain't  much  difference, 
for  that  matter,  between  sewing  on  shirts  and  writing 
on  stories,  —  one  way  you  work  with  your  foot,  and 
the  other  way  you  work  with  your  fingers,  but  I  rather 
guess  there  's  more  headache  in  the  stories  than  there 
is  in  the  stitches,  because  you  don't  have  to  think 
quite  so  hard  while  your  foot 's  going  as  you  do  when 
your  fingers  is  at  work,  scratch,  scratch,  scratch, 
scribble,  scribble,  scribble. 

It  occurred  to  me  that  this  last  suggestion  of  the 
Landlady  was  worth  considering  by  the  soft-handed, 
broadcloth-clad  spouters  to  the  laboring  classes,  —  so 
called  in  distinction  from  the  idle  people  who  only 
contrive  the  machinery  and  discover  the  processes  and 
lay  out  the  work  and  draw  the  charts  and  organize  the 
various  movements  which  keep  the  world  going  and 
make  it  tolerable.  The  organ-blower  works  harder 
with  his  muscles,  for  that  matter,  than  the  organ- 
player,  and  may  perhaps  be  exasperated  into  thinking 
himself  a  downtrodden  martyr  because  he  does  not  re- 
ceive the  same  pay  for  his  services. 

I  will  not  pretend  that  it  needed  the  Landlady's 
sagacious  guess  about  the  Young  Astronomer  and  his 


300     THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

pupil  to  open  my  eyes  to  certain  possibilities,  if  not 
probabilities,  in  that  direction.  Our  Scheherezade 
kept  on  writing  her  stories  according  to  agreement, 
so  many  pages  for  so  many  dollars,  but  some  of  her 
readers  began  to  complain  that  they  could  not  always 
follow  her  quite  so  well  as  in  her  earlier  efforts.  It 
seemed  as  if  she  must  have  fits  of  absence.  In  one 
instance  her  heroine  began  as  a  blonde  and  finished  as 
a  brunette ;  not  in  consequence  of  the  use  of  any  cos- 
metic, but  through  simple  inadvertence.  At  last  it 
happened  in  one  of  her  stories  that  a  prominent  char- 
acter who  had  been  killed  in  an  early  page,  not  equiv- 
ocally, but  mortally,  definitively  killed,  done  for,  and 
disposed  of,  reappeared  as  if  nothing  had  happened 
towards  the  close  of  her  narrative.  Her  mind  was  on 
something  else,  and  she  had  got  two  stories  mixed  up 
and  sent  her  manuscript  without  having  looked  it 
over.  She  told  this  mishap  to  the  Lady,  as  something 
she  was  dreadfully  ashamed  of  and  could  not  possibly 
account  for.  It  had  cost  her  a  sharp  note  from  the 
publisher,  and  would  be  as  good  as  a  dinner  to  some 
half -starved  Bohemian  of  the  critical  press. 

The  Lady  listened  to  all  this  very  thoughtfully, 
looking  at  her  with  great  tenderness,  and  said,  "My 
poor  child!  "  Not  another  word  then,  but  her  silence 
meant  a  good  deal. 

When  a  man  holds  his  tongue  it  does  not  signify 
much.  But  when  a  woman  dispenses  with  the  office 
of  that  mighty  member,  when  she  sheathes  her  natural 
weapon  at  a  trying  moment,  it  means  that  she  trusts 
to  still  more  formidable  enginery;  to  tears  it  may  be, 
a  solvent  more  powerful  than  that  with  which  Hanni- 
bal softened  the  Alpine  rocks,  or  to  the  heaving  bosom, 
the  sight  of  which  has  subdued  so  many  stout  natures, 


THE   POET   AT   THE   BREAKFAST-TABLE.          301 

or,  it  may  be,  to  a  sympathizing,  quieting  look  which 
says  "Peace,  be  still! "  to  the  winds  and  waves  of  the 
little  inland  ocean,  in  a  language  that  means  more 
than  speech. 

While  these  matters  were  going  on  the  Master  and 
I  had  many  talks  on  many  subjects.  He  had  found 
me  a  pretty  good  listener,  for  I  had  learned  that  the 
best  way  of  getting  at  what  was  worth  having  from 
him  was  to  wind  him  up  with  a  question  and  let  him 
run  down  all  of  himself.  It  is  easy  to  turn  a  good 
talker  into  an  insufferable  bore  by  contradicting  him, 
and  putting  questions  for  him  to  stumble  over,  —  that 
is,  if  he  is  not  a  bore  already,  as  "good  talkers"  are 
apt  to  be,  except  now  and  then. 

We  had  been  discussing  some  knotty  points  one 
morning  when  he  said  all  at  once : 

—  Come  into  my  library  with  me.     I  want  to  read 
you  some  new  passages  from  an  interleaved  copy  of 
my  book.     You  haven't  read  the  printed  part  yet. 
I  gave  you  a  copy  of  it,  but  nobody  reads  a  book  that 
is  given  to  him.     Of  course  not.     Nobody  but  a  fool 
expects  him  to.     He  reads  a  little  in  it  here  and  there, 
perhaps,  and  he  cuts  all  the  leaves  if  he  cares  enough 
about  the  writer,  who  will  be  sure  to  call  on  him  some 
day,  and  if  he  is  left  alone  in  his  library  for  five  min- 
utes will  have  hunted  every  corner  of  it  until  he  has 
found  the  book  he  sent,  —  if  it  is  to  be  found  at  all, 
which  does  n't  always  happen,  if  there  's  a  penal  col- 
ony anywhere  in  a  garret  or  closet  for  typographical 
offenders  and  vagrants. 

—  What  do  you  do  when  you  receive  a  book  you 
don't  want,  from  the  author?  —  said  I. 

—  Give  him  a  good-natured  adjective  or  two  if  I 


302     THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

can,  and  thank  him,  and  tell  him  I  am  lying  under  a 
sense  of  obligation  to  him. 

—  That  is  as  good  an  excuse  for  lying  as  almost 
any,  —  I  said. 

—  Yes,  but  look  out  for  the  fellows  that  send  you 
a  copy  of  their  book  to  trap  you  into  writing  a  book- 
seller's advertisement  for  it.     I  got  caught  so  once, 
and  never  heard  the  end  of  it  and  never  shall  hear  it. 
—  He  took  down  an  elegantly  bound  volume,  on  open- 
ing which  appeared  a  flourishing  and  eminently  flat- 
tering dedication  to  himself.  —  There,  —  said  he,  — 
what  could  I  do  less  than  acknowledge  such  a  compli- 
ment in  polite  terms,  and  hope  and  expect  the  book 
would  prove  successful,   and  so  forth  and  so  forth? 
Well,  I  get  a  letter  every  few  months  from  some  new 
locality  where  the  man  that  made  that  book  is  cover- 
ing the  fences  with  his  placards,  asking  me  whether 
I  wrote  that  letter  which  he  keeps  in  stereotype  and 
has  kept  so   any  time  these  dozen  or  fifteen  years. 
Animus  tuus  oculus,  as  the  freshmen  used  to  say. 
If  her  Majesty,  the  Queen  of  England,  sends  you  a 
copy  of  her  "Leaves  from  the  Journal  of  Our  Life 
in  the  Highlands,"  be  sure  you  mark  your  letter  of 
thanks  for  it  Private  ! 

We  had  got  comfortably  seated  in  his  library  in  the 
mean  time,  and  the  Master  had  taken  up  his  book.  I 
noticed  that  every  other  page  was  left  blank,  and  that 
he  had  written  in  a  good  deal  of  new  matter. 

—  I  tell  you  what, — he  said, — there  's  so  much 
intelligence  about  nowadays  in  books  and  newspapers 
and  talk  that  it  's  mighty  hard  to  write  without  get- 
ting something  or  other  worth  listening  to  into  your 
essay  or  your  volume.  The  foolishest  book  is  a  kind 
of  leaky  boat  on  a  sea  of  wisdom;  some  of  the  wisdom 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.     303 

will  get  in  anyhow.  Every  now  and  then  I  find  some- 
thing in  my  book  that  seems  so  good  to  me,  I  can't 
help  thinking  it  must  have  leaked  in.  I  suppose  other 
people  discover  that  it  came  through  a  leak,  full  as 
soon  as  I  do.  You  must  write  a  book  or  two  to  find 
out  how  much  and  how  little  you  know  and  have  to 
say.  Then  you  must  read  some  notices  of  it  by  some- 
body that  loves  you  and  one  or  two  by  somebody  that 
hates  you.  You  '11  find  yourself  a  very  odd  piece  of 
property  after  you  've  been  through  these  experiences. 
They  're  trying  to  the  constitution ;  I  'm  always  glad 
to  hear  that  a  friend  is  as  well  as  can  be  expected 
after  he  's  had  a  book. 

You  must  n't  think  there  are  no  better  things  in 
these  pages  of  mine  than  the  ones  I  'm  going  to  read 
you,  but  you  may  come  across  something  here  that  I 
forgot  to  say  when  we  were  talking  over  these  mat- 
ters. 

He  began,  reading  from  the  manuscript  portion  of 
his  book: 

—  We  find  it  hard  to  get  and  to  keep  any  private 
property  in  thought.  Other  people  are  all  the  time 
saying  the  same  things  we  are  hoarding  to  say  when 
we  get  ready.  [He  looked  up  from  his  book  just  here 
and  said,  "Don't  be  afraid,  I  am  not  going  to  quote 
Pereant."]  One  of  our  old  boarders  — the  one  that 
called  himself  "The  Professor"  I  think  it  was  —  said 
some  pretty  audacious  things  about  what  he  called 
tt pathological  piety,"  as  I  remember,  in  one  of  his 
papers.  And  here  comes  along  Mr.  Galton,  and 
shows  in  detail  from  religious  biographies  that  "there 
is  a  frequent  correlation  between  an  unusually  de- 
vout disposition  and  a  weak  constitution."  Neither 
of  them  appeared  to  know  that  John  Bunyan  had  got 


304     THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

at  the  same  fact  long  before  them.  He  tells  us,  "The 
more  healthy  the  lusty  man  is,  the  more  prone  he  is 
unto  evil."  If  the  converse  is  true,  no  wonder  that 
good  people,  according  to  Bunyan,  are  always  in 
trouble  and  terror,  for  he  says, 

"  A  Christian  man  is  never  long  at  ease  ; 
When  one  fright  is  gone,  another  doth  him  seize." 

If  invalidism  and  the  nervous  timidity  which  is  apt 
to  go  with  it  are  elements  of  spiritual  superiority,  it 
follows  that  pathology  and  toxicology  should  form  a 
most  important  part  of  a  theological  education,  so 
that  a  divine  might  know  how  to  keep  a  parish  in  a 
state  of  chronic  bad  health  in  order  that  it  might  be 
virtuous. 

It  is  a  great  mistake  to  think  that  a  man's  religion 
is  going  to  rid  him  of  his  natural  qualities.  "  Bishop 
Hall "  (as  you  may  remember  to  have  seen  quoted  else- 
where) "prefers  Nature  before  Grace  in  the  Election 
of  a  wife,  because,  saith  he,  it  will  be  a  hard  Task, 
where  the  Nature  is  peevish  and  froward,  for  Grace 
to  make  an  entire  conquest  while  Life  lasteth." 

"Nature"  and  "Grace  "  have  been  contrasted  with 
each  other  in  a  way  not  very  respectful  to  the  Di- 
vine omnipotence.  Kings  and  queens  reign  "by  the 
Grace  of  God,"  but  a  sweet,  docile,  pious  disposition, 
such  as  is  born  in  some  children  and  grows  up  with 
them,  —  that  congenital  gift  which  good  Bishop  Hall 
would  look  for  in  a  wife, —  is  attributed  to  "Nature." 
In  fact  "Nature"  and  "Grace,"  as  handled  by  the 
scholastics,  are  nothing  more  nor  less  than  two  hos- 
tile Divinities  in  the  Pantheon  of  post-classical  poly- 
theism. 

What  is  the  secret  of  the  profound  interest  which 
"Darwinism"  has  excited  in  the  minds  and  hearts  of 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.     305 

more  persons  than  dare  to  confess  their  doubts  and 
hopes?  It  is  because  it  restores  "Nature"  to  its 
place  as  a  true  divine  manifestation.  It  is  that  it  re- 
moves the  traditional  curse  from  that  helpless  infant 
lying  in  its  mother's  arms.  It  is  that  it  lifts  from  the 
shoulders  of  man  the  responsibility  for  the  fact  of 
death.  It  is  that,  if  it  is  true,  woman  can  no  longer 
be  taunted  with  having  brought  down  on  herself  the 
pangs  which  make  her  sex  a  martyrdom.  If  develop- 
ment upward  is  the  general  law  of  the  race;  if  we 
have  grown  by  natural  evolution  out  of  the  cave-man, 
and  even  less  human  forms  of  life,  we  have  everything 
to  hope  from  the  future.  That  the  question  can  be 
discussed  without  offence  shows  that  we  are  entering 
on  a  new  era,  a  Revival  greater  than  that  of  Letters, 
the  Revival  of  Humanity. 

The  prevalent  view  of  "Nature"  has  been  akin  to 
that  which  long  reigned  with  reference  to  disease. 
This  used  to  be  considered  as  a  distinct  entity  apart 
from  the  processes  of  life,  of  which  it  is  one  of  the 
manifestations.  It  was  a  kind  of  demon  to  be  at- 
tacked with  things  of  odious  taste  and  smell ;  to  be 
fumigated  out  of  the  system  as  the  evil  spirit  was 
driven  from  the  bridal-chamber  in  the  story  of  Tobit. 
The  Doctor  of  earlier  days,  even  as  I  can  remember 
him,  used  to  exorcise  the  demon  of  disease  with 
recipes  of  odor  as  potent  as  that  of  the  angel's  diabol- 
ifuge,  — the  smoke  from  a  fish's  heart  and  liver,  duly 
burned,  —  "the  which  smell  when  the  evil  spirit  had 
smelled  he  fled  into  the  uttermost  parts  of  Egypt." 
The  very  moment  that  disease  passes  into  the  cate- 
gory of  vital  processes,  and  is  recognized  as  an  occur- 
rence absolutely  necessary,  inevitable,  and  as  one 
may  say,  normal  under  certain  given  conditions  of 


306    THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

constitution  and  circumstance,  the  medicine -man  loses 
his  half -miraculous  endowments.  The  mythical  ser- 
pent is  untwined  from  the  staff  of  Esculapius,  which 
thenceforth  becomes  a  useful  walking-stick,  and  does 
not  pretend  to  be  anything  more. 

Sin,  like  disease,  is  a  vital  process.  It  is  a  func- 
tion, and  not  an  entity.  It  must  be  studied  as  a 
section  of  anthropology.  No  preconceived  idea  must 
be  allowed  to  interfere  with  our  investigation  of  the 
deranged  spiritual  function,  any  more  than  the  old 
ideas  of  demoniacal  possession  must  be  allowed  to  in- 
terfere with  our  study  of  epilepsy.  Spiritual  pathol- 
ogy is  a  proper  subject  for  direct  observation  and 
analysis,  like  any  other  subject  involving  a  series  of 
living  actions. 

In  these  living  actions  everything  is  progressive. 
There  are  sudden  changes  of  character  in  what  is 
called  "conversion"  which,  at  first,  hardly  seem  to 
come  into  line  with  the  common  laws  of  evolution. 
But  these  changes  have  been  long  preparing,  and  it  is 
just  as  much  in  the  order  of  nature  that  certain 'char- 
acters should  burst  all  at  once  from  the  rule  of  evil 
propensities,  as  it  is  that  the  evening  primrose  should 
explode,  as  it  were,  into  bloom  with  audible  sound, 
as  you  may  read  in  Keats 's  Endymion,  or  observe  in 
your  own  garden. 

There  is  a  continual  tendency  in  men  to  fence  in 
themselves  and  a  few  of  their  neighbors  who  agree 
with  them  in  their  ideas,  as  if  they  were  an  exception 
to  their  race.  We  must  not  allow  any  creed  or  reli- 
gion whatsoever  to  confiscate  to  its  own  private  use  and 
benefit  the  virtues  which  belong  to  our  common  hu- 
manity. The  Good  Samaritan  helped  his  wounded 
neighbor  simply  because  he  was  a  suffering  fellow- 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.     307 

creature.  Do  you  think  your  charitable  act  is  more 
acceptable  than  the  Good  Samaritan's,  because  you 
do  it  in  the  name  of  Him  who  made  the  memory  of 
that  kind  man  immortal?  Do  you  mean  that  you 
would  not  give  the  cup  of  cold  water  for  the  sake 
simply  and  solely  of  the  poor,  suffering  fellow-mortal, 
as  willingly  as  you  now  do,  professing  to  give  it  for 
the  sake  of  Him  who  is  not  thirsty  or  in  need  of  any 
help  of  yours  ?  We  must  ask  questions  like  this,  if 
we  are  to  claim  for  our  common  nature  what  belongs 
to  it. 

The  scientific  study  of  man  is  the  most  difficult 
of  all  branches  of  knowledge.  It  requires,  in  the  first 
place,  an  entire  new  terminology  to  get  rid  of  that 
enormous  load  of  prejudices  with  which  every  term 
applied  to  the  malformations,  the  functional  disturb- 
ances, and  the  organic  diseases  of  the  moral  nature  is 
at  present  burdened.  Take  that  one  word  /Sm,  for 
instance :  all  those  who  have  studied  the  subject  from 
nature  and  not  from  books  know  perfectly  well  that  a 
certain  fraction  of  what  is  so  called  is  nothing  more  or 
less  than  a  symptom  of  hysteria;  that  another  frac- 
tion is  the  index  of  a  limited  degree  of  insanity ;  that 
still  another  is  the  result  of  a  congenital  tendency 
which  removes  the  act  we  sit  in  judgment  upon  from 
the  sphere  of  self-determination,  if  not  entirely,  at 
least  to  such  an  extent  that  the  subject  of  the  ten- 
dency cannot  be  judged  by  any  normal  standard. 

To  study  nature  without  fear  is  possible,  but  with- 
out reproach,  impossible.  The  man  who  worships  in 
the  temple  of  knowledge  must  carry  his  arms  with  him 
as  our  Puritan  fathers  had  to  do  when  they  gathered  in 
their  first  rude  meeting-houses.  It  is  a  fearful  thing 
to  meddle  with  the  ark  which  holds  the  mysteries  of 


308     THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

creation.  I  remember  that  when  I  was  a  child  the 
tradition  was  whispered  round  among  us  little  folks 
that  if  we  tried  to  count  the  stars  we  should  drop 
down  dead.  Nevertheless,  the  stars  have  been  counted 
and  the  astronomer  has  survived.  This  nursery  le- 
gend is  the  child's  version  of  those  superstitions  which 
would  have  strangled  in  their  cradles  the  young  sci- 
ences  now  adolescent  and  able  to  take  care  of  them- 
selves, and  which,  no  longer  daring  to  attack  these, 
are  watching  with  hostile  aspect  the  rapid  growth  of 
the  comparatively  new  science  of  man. 

The  real  difficulty  of  the  student  of  nature  at  this 
time  is  to  reconcile  absolute  freedom  and  perfect  fear- 
lessness with  that  respect  for  the  past,  that  reverence 
for  the  spirit  of  reverence  wherever  we  find  it,  that 
tenderness  for  the  weakest  fibres  by  which  the  hearts 
of  our  fellow-creatures  hold  to  their  religious  convic- 
tions, which  will  make  the  transition  from  old  belief 
to  a  larger  light  and  liberty  an  interstitial  change  and 
not  a  violent  mutilation. 

I  remember  once  going  into  a  little  church  in  a 
small  village  some  miles  from  a  great  European  cap- 
ital. The  special  object  of  adoration  in  this  humblest 
of  places  of  worship  was  a  bambino,  a  holy  infant, 
done  in  wax,  and  covered  with  cheap  ornaments  such 
as  a  little  girl  would  like  to  beautify  her  doll  with. 
Many  a  good  Protestant  of  the  old  Puritan  type  would 
have  felt  a  strong  impulse  to  seize  this  "  idolatrous " 
figure  and  dash  it  to  pieces  on  the  stone  floor  of  the 
little  church.  But  one  must  have  lived  awhile  among 
simple-minded  pious  Catholics  to  know  what  this  poor 
waxen  image  and  the  whole  baby-house  of  bambinos 
mean  for  a  humble,  unlettered,  unimaginative  peas- 
antry. He  will  find  that  the  true  office  of  this  eidolon 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.     309 

is  to  fix  the  mind  of  the  worshipper,  and  that  in  virtue 
of  the  devotional  thoughts  it  has  called  forth  so  often 
for  so  many  years  in  the  mind  of  that  poor  old  woman 
who  is  kneeling  before  it,  it  is  no  longer  a  wax  doll 
for  her,  but  has  undergone  a  transubstantiation  quite 
as  real  as  that  of  the  Eucharist.  The  moral  is  that 
we  must  not  roughly  smash  other  people's  idols  be- 
cause we  know,  or  think  we  know,  that  they  are  of 
cheap  human  manufacture. 

—  Do  you  think  cheap  manufactures  encourage  idle- 
ness?—  said  I. 

The  Master  stared.  Well  he  might,  for  I  had  been 
getting  a  little  drowsy,  and  wishing  to  show  that  I  had 
been  awake  and  attentive,  asked  a  question  suggested 
by  some  words  I  had  caught,  but  which  showed  that 
I  had  not  been  taking  the  slightest  idea  from  what  he 
was  reading  me.  He  stared,  shook  his  head  slowly, 
smiled  good-humoredly,  took  off  his  great  round  spec- 
tacles, and  shut  up  his  book. 

—  Sat  prata  biberunt,  —  he  said.     A  sick  man  that 
gets  talking  about  himself,  a  woman  that  gets  talking 
about  her  baby,  and  an  author  that  begins  reading  out 
of  his  own  book,  never  know  when  to  stop.     You  '11 
think  of  some  of  these  things  you  've  been  getting  half 
asleep  over  by  and  by.     I  don't  want  you  to  believe 
anything  I  say ;  I  only  want  you  to  try  to  see  what 
makes  me  believe  it. 

My  young  friend,  the  Astronomer,  has,  I  suspect, 
been  making  some  addition  to  his  manuscript.  At 
any  rate  some  of  the  lines  he  read  us  in  the  afternoon 
of  this  same  day  had  never  enjoyed  the  benefit  of  my 
revision,  and  I  think  they  had  but  just  been  written. 
I  noticed  that  his  manner  was  somewhat  more  ex- 


310    THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

cited  than  usual,  and  his  voice  just  towards  the  close 
a  little  tremulous.  Perhaps  I  may  attribute  his  im- 
provement to  the  effect  of  my  criticisms,  but  whatever 
the  reason,  I  think  these  lines  are  very  nearly  as  cor- 
rect as  they  would  have  been  if  I  had  looked  them 
over. 

WIND-CLOUDS  AND  STAR-DRIFTS. 

VII. 

"What  if  a  soul  redeemed,  a  spirit  that  loved 
While  yet  on  earth  and  was  beloved  in  turn, 
And  still  remembered  every  look  and  tone 
Of  that  dear  earthly  sister  who  was  left 
Among  the  unwise  virgins  at  the  gate,  — 
Itself  admitted  with  the  bridegroom's  train,  — 
What  if  this  spirit  redeemed,  amid  the  host 
Of  chanting  angels,  in  some  transient  lull 
Of  the  eternal  anthem,  heard  the  cry 
Of  its  lost  darling,  whom  in  evil  hour 
Some  wilder  pulse  of  nature  led  astray 
And  left  an  outcast  in  a  world  of  fire, 
Condemned  to  be  the  sport  of  cruel  fiends, 
Sleepless,  unpitying,  masters  of  the  skill 
To  wring  the  maddest  ecstasies  of  pain 
From  worn-out  souls  that  only  ask  to  die,  — 
Would  it  not  long  to  leave  the  bliss  of  Heaven,  — 
Bearing  a  little  water  in  its  hand 
To  moisten  those  poor  lips  that  plead  in  vain 
With  Him  we  call  our  Father  ?     Or  is  all 
So  changed  in  such  as  taste  celestial  joy 
They  hear  unmoved  the  endless  wail  of  woe, 
The  daughter  in  the  same  dear  tones  that  hushed 
Her  cradled  slumbers;  she  who  once  had  held 
A  babe  upon  her  bosom  from  its  voice 
Hoarse  with  its  cry  of  anguish,  yet  the  same  ? 

No  !  not  in  ages  when  the  Dreadful  Bird 
Stamped  his  huge  footprints,  and  the  Fearful  Beast 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.    311 

Strode  with  the  flesh  about  those  fossil  bones 
We  build  to  mimic  life  with  pygmy  hands,  — 
Not  in  those  earliest  days  when  men  ran  wild 
And  gashed  each  other  with  their  knives  of  stone5 
When  their  low  foreheads  bulged  in  ridgy  brows 
And  their  flat  hands  were  callous  in  the  palm 
With  walking  in  the  fashion  of  their  sires, 
Grope  as  they  might  to  find  a  cruel  god 
To  work  their  will  on  such  as  human  wrath 
Had  wrought  its  worst  to  torture,  and  had  left 
With  rage  unsated,  white  and  stark  and  cold, 
Could  hate  have  shaped  a  demon  more  malign 
Than  him  the  dead  men  mummied  in  their  creed 
And  taught  their  trembling  children  to  adore  ! 

Made  in  his  image  !     Sweet  and  gracious  souls 
Dear  to  my  heart  by  nature's  fondest  names, 
Is  not  your  memory  still  the  precious  mould 
That  lends  its  form  to  Him  who  hears  my  prayer  ? 
Thus  only  I  behold  him,  like  to  them, 
Long-suffering,  gentle,  ever  slow  to  wrath, 
If  wrath  it  be  that  only  wounds  to  heal, 
Ready  to  meet  the  wanderer  ere  he  reach 
The  door  he  seeks,  forgetful  of  his  sin, 
Longing  to  clasp  him  in  a  father's  arms, 
And  seal  his  pardon  with  a  pitying  tear ! 

Four  gospels  tell  their  story  to  mankind, 
And  none  so  full  of  soft,  caressing  words 
That  bring  the  Maid  of  Bethlehem  and  her  Babe 
Before  our  tear-dimmed  eyes,  as  his  who  learned 
In  the  meek  service  of  his  gracious  art 
The  tones  which  like  the  medicinal  balms 
That  calm  the  sufferer's  anguish,  soothe  our  souls. 
—  Oh  that  the  loving  woman,  she  who  sat 
So  long  a  listener  at  her  Master's  feet, 
Had  left  us  Mary's  Gospel,  —  all  she  heard 
Too  sweet,  too  subtle  for  the  ear  of  man  ! 
Mark  how  the  tender-hearted  mothers  read 
The  messages  of  love  between  the  lines 
Of  the  same  page  that  loads  the  bitter  tongue 
Of  him  who  deals  in  terror  as  his  trade 


312    THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

With  threatening  words  of  wrath  that  scorch  like  flame ! 

They  tell  of  angels  whispering  round  the  bed 

Of  the  sweet  infant  smiling  in  its  dream, 

Of  lambs  enfolded  in  the  Shepherd's  arms, 

Of  Him  who  blessed  the  children;  of  the  land 

Where  crystal  rivers  feed  unfading  flowers, 

Of  cities  golden-paved  with  streets  of  pearl, 

Of  the  white  robes  the  winged  creatures  wear, 

The  crowns  and  harps  from  whose  melodious  strings 

One  long,  sweet  anthem  flows  forevermore  ! 

—  We  too  had  human  mothers,  even  as  Thou, 
Whom  we  have  learned  to  worship  as  remote 
From  mortal  kindred,  wast  a  cradled  babe. 
The  milk  of  woman  filled  our  branching  veins, 
She  lulled  us  with  her  tender  nursery-song, 
And  folded  round  us  her  untiring  arms, 
While  the  first  unremembered  twilight  year 
Shaped  us  to  conscious  being;  still  we  feel 
Her  pulses  in  our  own,  —  too  faintly  feel; 
Would  that  the  heart  of  woman  warmed  our  creeds  ! 

Not  from  the  sad-eyed  hermit's  lonely  cell, 
Not  from  the  conclave  where  the  holy  men 
Glare  on  each  other,  as  with  angry  eyes 
They  battle  for  God's  glory  and  their  own, 
Till,  sick  of  wordy  strife,  a  show  of  hands 
Fixes  the  faith  of  ages  yet  unborn,  — 
Ah,  not  from  these  the  listening  soul  can  hear 
The  Father's  voice  that  speaks  itself  divine  ! 
Love  must  be  still  our  Master;  till  we  learn 
What  he  can  teach  us  of  a  woman's  heart, 
We  know  not  His,  whose  love  embraces  all. 


There  are  certain  nervous  conditions  peculiar  to 
women  in  which  the  common  effects  of  poetry  and  of 
music  upon  their  sensibilities  are  strangely  exagger- 
ated. It  was  not  perhaps  to  be  wondered  at  that 
Octavia  fainted  when  Virgil  in  reading  from  his  great 
poem  came  to  the  line  beginning  Tu  Marcellus  eris. 
It  is  not  hard  to  believe  the  story  told  of  one  of  the 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.     313 

two  Davidson  sisters,  that  the  singing  of  some  of 
Moore's  plaintive  melodies  would  so  impress  her  as 
almost  to  take  away  the  faculties  of  sense  and  motion. 
But  there  must  have  been  some  special  cause  for  the 
singular  nervous  state  into  which  this  reading  threw 
the  young  girl,  our  Scheherezade.  She  was  doubtless 
tired  with  overwork  and  troubled  with  the  thought 
that  she  was  not  doing  herself  justice,  and  that  she 
was  doomed  to  be  the  helpless  prey  of  some  of  those 
corbies  who  not  only  pick  out  corbies'  eyes,  but  find 
no  other  diet  so  nutritious  and  agreeable. 

Whatever  the  cause  may  have  been,  her  heart 
heaved  tumultuously,  her  color  came  and  went,  and 
though  she  managed  to  avoid  a  scene  by  the  exercise 
of  all  her  self-control,  I  watched  her  very  anxiously, 
for  I  was  afraid  she  would  have  had  a  hysteric  turn, 
or  in  one  of  her  pallid  moments  that  she  would  have 
fainted  and  fallen  like  one  dead  before  us. 

I  was  very  glad,  therefore,  when  evening  came,  to 
find  that  she  was  going  out  for  a  lesson  on  the  stars. 
I  knew  the  open  air  was  what  she  needed,  and  I 
thought  the  walk  would  do  her  good,  whether  she  made 
any  new  astronomical  acquisitions  or  not. 

It  was  now  late  in  the  autumn,  and  the  trees  were 
pretty  nearly  stripped  of  their  leaves.  There  was  no 
place  so  favorable  as  the  Common  for  the  study  of 
the  heavens.  The  skies  were  brilliant  with  stars,  and 
the  air  was  just  keen  enough  to  remind  our  young 
friends  that  the  cold  season  was  at  hand.  They  wan- 
dered round  for  a  while,  and  at  last  found  themselves 
under  the  Great  Elm,  drawn  thither,  no  doubt,  by 
the  magnetism  it  is  so  well  known  to  exert  over  the 
natives  of  its  own  soil  and  those  who  have  often 
been  under  the  shadow  of  its  outstretched  arms.  The 


314    THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

venerable  survivor  of  its  contemporaries  that  flour- 
ished in  the  days  when  Blackstone  rode  beneath  it 
on  his  bull  was  now  a  good  deal  broken  by  age,  yet 
not  without  marks  of  lusty  vitality.  It  had  been 
wrenched  and  twisted  and  battered  by  so  many  scores 
of  winters  that  some  of  its  limbs  were  crippled  and 
many  of  its  joints  were  shaky,  and  but  for  the  sup- 
port of  the  iron  braces  that  lent  their  strong  sinews 
to  its  more  infirm  members  it  would  have  gone  to 
pieces  in  the  first  strenuous  northeaster  or  the  first 
sudden  and  violent  gale  from  the  southwest.  But 
there  it  stood,  and  there  it  stands  as  yet,  —  though  its 
obituary  was  long  ago  written  after  one  of  the  terri- 
ble storms  that  tore  its  branches,  —  leafing  out  hope- 
fully in  April  as  if  it  were  trying  in  its  dumb  lan- 
guage to  lisp  "Our  Father,"  and  dropping  its  slender 
burden  of  foliage  in  October  as  softly  as  if  it  were 
whispering  Amen! 

Not  far  from  the  ancient  and  monumental  tree  lay 
a  small  sheet  of  water,  once  agile  with  life  and  vocal 
with  evening  melodies,  but  now  stirred  only  by  the 
swallow  as  he  dips  his  wing,  or  by  the  morning  bath 
of  the  English  sparrows,  those  high-headed,  thick- 
bodied,  full-feeding,  hot-tempered  little  John  Bulls 
that  keep  up  such  a  swashing  and  swabbing  and  spat- 
tering round  all  the  water  basins,  one  might  think 
from  the  fuss  they  make'  about  it  that  a  bird  never 
took  a  bath  here  before,  and  that  they  were  the  mis- 
sionaries of  ablution  to  the  unwashed  Western  world. 

There  are  those  who  speak  lightly  of  this  small 
aqueous  expanse,  the  eye  of  the  sacred  enclosure, 
which  has  looked  unwinking  on  the  happy  faces  of  so 
many  natives  and  the  curious  features  of  so  many 
strangers.  The  music  of  its  twilight  minstrels  has 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.    315 

long  ceased,  but  their  memory  lingers  like  an  echo 
in  the  name  it  bears.  Cherish  it,  inhabitants  of 
the  two -hilled  city,  once  three-hilled;  ye  who  have 
said  to  the  mountain,  "Kemove  hence,"  and  turned 
the  sea  into  dry  land!  May  no  contractor  fill  his 
pockets  by  undertaking  to  fill  thee,  thou  granite- 
girdled  lakelet,  or  drain  the  civic  purse  by  drawing 
off  thy  waters !  For  art  tLou  not  the  Palladium  of 
our  Troy?  Didst  thou  not,  like  the  Divine  image 
which  was  the  safeguard  of  Ilium,  fall  from  the  skies, 
and  if  the  Trojan  could  look  with  pride  upon  the 
heaven-descended  form  of  the  Goddess  of  Wisdom, 
cannot  he  who  dwells  by  thy  shining  oval  look  in  that 
mirror  and  contemplate  Himself,  —  the  Native  of 
Boston. 

There  must  be  some  fatality  which  carries  our 
young  men  and  maidens  in  the  direction  of  the  Com- 
mon when  they  have  anything  very  particular  to  ex- 
change their  views  about.  At  any  rate  I  remember 
two  of  our  young  friends  brought  up  here  a  good  many 
years  ago,  and  I  understand  that  there  is  one  path 
across  the  enclosure  which  a  young  man  must  not  ask 
a  young  woman  to  take  with  him  unless  he  means 
business,  for  an  action  will  hold  for  breach  of  prom- 
ise, if  she  consents  to  accompany  him,  and  he  chooses 
to  forget  his  obligations. 

Our  two  young  people  stood  at  the  western  edge  of 
the  little  pool,  studying  astronomy  in  the  reflected 
firmament.  The  Pleiades  were  trembling  in  the  wave 
before  them,  and  the  three  great  stars  of  Orion, — 
for  these  constellations  were  both  glittering  in  the 
eastern  sky. 

"There  is  no  place  too  humble  for  the  glories  of 
heaven  to  shine  in,"  she  said. 


316    THE  POET  AT  THE  BKEAKFAST-TABLE. 

"And  their  splendor  makes  even  this  little  pool 
beautiful  and  noble,"  he  answered.  "Where  is  the 
light  to  come  from  that  is  to  do  as  much  for  our  poor 
human  lives?" 

A  simple  question  enough,  but  the  young  girl  felt 
her  color  change  as  she  answered,  "  From  friendship, 
I  think." 

—  Grazing  only  as  yet,  —  not  striking  full,  — 
hardly  hitting  at  all, — but  there  are  questions  and 
answers  that  come  so  Very  near,  the  wind  of  them 
alone  almost  takes  the  breath  away. 

There  was  an  interval  of  silence.  Two  young  per- 
sons can  stand  looking  at  water  for  a  long  time  with- 
out feeling  the  necessity  of  speaking.  Especially 
when  the  water  is  alive  with  stars  and  the  young  per- 
sons are  thoughtful  and  impressible.  The  water 
seems  to  do  half  the  thinking  while  one  is  looking  at 
it;  its  movements  are  felt  in  the  brain  very  much 
like  thought.  When  I  was  in  full  training  as  a 
flaneur,  I  could  stand  on  the  Pont  Neuf  with  the 
other  experts  in  the  great  science  of  passive  cerebra- 
tion and  look  at  the  river  for  half  an  hour  with  so  lit- 
tle mental  articulation  that  when  I  moved  on  it  seemed 
as  if  my  thinking-marrow  had  been  asleep  and  was 
just  waking  up  refreshed  after  its  nap. 

So  the  reader  can  easily  account  for  the  interval  of 
silence.  It  is  hard  to  tell  how  long  it  would  have 
lasted,  but  just  then  a  lubberly  intrusive  boy  threw 
a  great  stone,  which  convulsed  the  firmament,  —  the 
one  at  their  feet,  I  mean.  The  six  Pleiads  disap- 
peared as  if  in  search  of  their  lost  sister ;  the  belt  of 
Orion  was  broken  asunder,  and  a  hundred  worlds 
dissolved  back  into  chaos.  They  turned  away  and 
strayed  off  into  one  of  the  more  open  paths,  where  the 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BKEAKFAST-TABLE.    317 

view  of  the  sky  over  them  was  unobstructed.  For 
some  reason  or  other  the  astronomical  lesson  did  not 
get  on  very  fast  this  evening. 

Presently  the  young  man  asked  his  pupil: 

—  Do  you  know  what  the  constellation  directly  over 
our  heads  is? 

—  Is  it  not  Cassiopea?  —  she  asked  a  little  hesita. 
tingly. 

—  No,  it  is  Andromeda.     You  ought  not  to  have 
forgotten  her,  for  I  remember  showing  you  a  double 
star,  the  one  in  her  right  foot,  through  the  equatorial 
telescope.     You  have  not  forgotten  the  double  star, 
—  the  two  that  shone  for  each  other  and  made  a  little 
world  by  themselves? 

—  No,  indeed,  —  she  answered,  and  blushed,  and 
felt  ashamed  because  she  had  said  indeed,  as  if  it  had 
been  an  emotional  recollection. 

The  double-star  allusion  struck  another  dead  si- 
lence. She  would  have  given  a  week's  pay  to  any 
invisible  attendant  that  would  have  cut  her  stay-lace. 

At  last:  Do  you  know  the  story  of  Andromeda?  — 
he  said. 

—  Perhaps  I  did  once,  but  suppose  I  don't  remem- 
ber it. 

He  told  her  the  story  of  the  unfortunate  maiden 
chained  to  a  rock  and  waiting  for  a  sea-beast  that  was 
coming  to  devour  her,  and  how  Perseus  came  and  set 
her  free,  and  won  her  love  with  her  life.  And  then 
he  began  something  about  a  young  man  chained  to  his 
rock,  which  was  a  star-gazer's  tower,  a  prey  by  turns 
to  ambition,  and  lonely  self -contempt  and  unwholesome 
scorn  of  the  life  he  looked  down  upon  after  the  seren- 
ity of  the  firmament,  and  endless  questionings  that 
led  him  nowhere,  —  and  now  he  had  only  one  more 


318     THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

question  to  ask.  He  loved  her.  Would  she  break 
his  chain  ?  —  He  held  both  his  hands  out  towards  her, 
the  palms  together,  as  if  they  were  fettered  at  the 
wrists.  She  took  hold  of  them  very  gently;  parted 
them  a  little ;  then  wider  —  wider  —  and  found  herself 
all  at  once  folded,  unresisting,  in  her  lover's  arms. 

So  there  was  a  new  double-star  in  the  living  firma- 
ment. The  constellations  seemed  to  kindle  with  new 
splendors  as  the  student  and  the  story-teller  walked 
homeward  in  their  light;  Alioth  and  Algol  looked 
down  on  them  as  on  the  first  pair  of  lovers  they  shone 
over,  and  the  autumn  air  seemed  full  of  harmonies  as 
when  the  morning  stars  sang  together. 


XII. 

The  old  Master  had  asked  us,  the  Young  Astrono- 
mer and  myself,  into  his  library,  to  hear  him  read 
some  passages  from  his  interleaved  book.  We  three 
had  formed  a  kind  of  little  club  without  knowing  it 
from  the  time  when  the  young  man  began  reading 
those  extracts  from  his  poetical  reveries  which  I  have 
reproduced  in  these  pages.  Perhaps  we  agreed  in  too 
many  things,  —  I  suppose  if  we  could  have  had  a  good 
hard-headed,  old-fashioned  New  England  divine  to 
meet  with  us  it  might  have  acted  as  a  wholesome  cor- 
rective. For  we  had  it  all  our  own  way;  the  Lady's 
kindly  remonstrance  was  taken  in  good  part,  but  did 
not  keep  us  from  talking  pretty  freely,  and  as  for  the 
Young  Girl,  she  listened  with  the  tranquillity  and 
fearlessness  which  a  very  simple  trusting  creed  natu- 
rally gives  those  who  hold  it.  The  fewer  outworks  to 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.     319 

the  citadel  of  belief,  the  fewer  points  there  are  to  be 
threatened  and  endangered. 

The  reader  must  not  suppose  that  I  even  attempt  to 
reproduce  everything  exactly  as  it  took  place  in  our 
conversations,  or  when  we  met  to  listen  to  the  Mas- 
ter's prose  or  to  the  Young  Astronomer's  verse.  I  do 
not  pretend  to  give  all  the  pauses  and  interruptions 
by  question  or  otherwise.  I  could  not  always  do  it  if 
I  tried,  but  I  do  not  want  to,  for  oftentimes  it  is  bet- 
ter to  let  the  speaker  or  reader  go  on  continuously, 
although  there  may  have  been  many  breaks  in  the 
course  of  the  conversation  or  reading.  When,  for 
instance,  I  by  and  by  reproduce  what  the  Landlady 
said  to  us,  I  shall  give  it  almost  without  any  hint  that 
it  was  arrested  in  its  flow  from  time  to  time  by  vari- 
ous expressions  on  the  part  of  the  hearers. 

I  can  hardly  say  what  the  reason  of  it  was,  but  it  is 
very  certain  that  I  had  a  vague  sense  of  some  impend- 
ing event  as  we  took  our  seats  in  the  Master's  library. 
He  seemed  particularly  anxious  that  we  should  be 
comfortably  seated,  and  shook  up  the  cushions  of  the 
arm-chairs  himself,  and  got  them  into  the  right 
places. 

Now  go  to  sleep  —  he  said  —  or  listen,  —  just  which 
you  like  best.  But  I  am  going  to  begin  by  telling 
you  both  a  secret. 

Liberavi  animam  meam.  That  is  the  meaning  of 
my  book  and  of  my  literary  life,  if  I  may  give  such  a 
name  to  that  party-colored  shred  of  human  existence. 
I  have  unburdened  myself  in  this  book,  and  in  some 
other  pages,  of  what  I  was  born  to  say.  Many  things 
that  I  have  said  in  my  ripe  days  have  been  aching 
in  my  soul  since  I  was  a  mere  child.  I  say  aching, 
because  they  conflicted  with  many  of  my  inherited 


320    THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

beliefs,  or  rather  traditions.  I  did  not  know  then 
that  two  strains  of  blood  were  striving  in  me  for  the 
mastery,  — two!  twenty,  perhaps,  — twenty  thousand, 
for  aught  I  know,  —  but  represented  to  me  by  two, 
—  paternal  and  maternal.  Blind  forces  in  them- 
selves ;  shaping  thoughts  as  they  shaped  features  and 
battled  for  the  moulding  of  constitution  and  the  min- 
gling of  temperament. 

Philosophy  and  poetry  came  to  me  before  I  knew 
their  names. 

Je  fis  mes  premiers  vers,  sans  savoir  les  dcrire. 

Not  verses  so  much  as  the  stuff  that  verses  are  made 
of.  I  don't  suppose  that  the  thoughts  which  came  up 
of  themselves  in  my  mind  were  so  mighty  different 
from  what  come  up  in  the  minds  of  other  young  folks. 
And  that  's  the  best  reason  I  could  give  for  telling 
'em.  I  don't  believe  anything  I  've  written  is  as  good 
as  it  seemed  to  me  when  I  wrote  it,  —  he  stopped,  for 
he  was  afraid  he  was  lying, — not  much  that  I  've 
written,  at  any  rate,  —  he  said  —  with  a  smile  at  the 
honesty  which  made  him  qualify  his  statement.  But 
I  do  know  this :  I  have  struck  a  good  many  chords, 
first  and  last,  in  the  consciousness  of  other  people.  I 
confess  to  a  tender  feeling  for  my  little  brood  of 
thoughts.  When  they  have  been  welcomed  and 
praised  it  has  pleased  me,  and  if  at  any  time  they  have 
been  rudely  handled  and  despitefully  entreated  it  has 
cost  me  a  little  worry.  I  don't  despise  reputation, 
and  I  should  like  to  be  remembered  as  having  said 
something  worth  lasting  well  enough  to  last. 

But  all  that  is  nothing  to  the  main  comfort  I  feel 
as  a  writer.  I  have  got  rid  of  something  my  mind 
could  not  keep  to  itself  and  rise  as  it  was  meant  to 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.     321 

into  higher  regions.  I  saw  the  aeronauts  the  other 
day  emptying  from  the  bags  some  of  the  sand  that 
served  as  ballast.  It  glistened  a  moment  in  the  sun- 
light as  a  slender  shower,  and  then  was  lost  and  seen 
no  more  as  it  scattered  itself  unnoticed.  But  the  air- 
ship rose  higher  as  the  sand  was  poured  out,  and  so 
it  seems  to  me  I  have  felt  myself  getting  above  the 
mists  and  clouds  whenever  I  have  lightened  myself  of 
some  portion  of  the  mental  ballast  I  have  carried  with 
me.  Why  should  I  hope  or  fear  when  I  send  out  my 
book?  I  have  had  my  reward,  for  I  have  wrought 
out  my  thought,  I  have  said  my  say,  I  have  freed  my 
soul.  I  can  afford  to  be  forgotten. 

Look  here !  —  he  said.  I  keep  oblivion  always  be- 
fore me.  —  He  pointed  to  a  singularly  perfect  and 
beautiful  trilobite  which  was  lying  on  a  pile  of  manu- 
scripts. —  Each  time  I  fill  a  sheet  of  paper  with  what 
I  am  writing,  I  lay  it  beneath  this  relic  of  a  dead 
world,  and  project  my  thought  forward  into  eternity 
as  far  as  this  extinct  crustacean  carries  it  backward. 
When  my  heart  beats  too  lustily  with  vain  hopes  of 
being  remembered,  I  press  the  cold  fossil  against  it 
and  it  grows  calm.  I  touch  my  forehead  with  it,  and 
its  anxious  furrows  grow  smooth.  Our  world,  too, 
with  all  its  breathing  life,  is  but  a  leaf  to  be  folded 
with  the  other  strata,  and  if  I  am  only  patient,  by 
and  by  I  shall  be  just  as  famous  as  imperious  Caesar 
himself,  embedded  with  me  in  a  conglomerate. 

He  began  reading:  —  "There  is  no  new  thing  under 
the  sun,"  said  the  Preacher.  He  would  not  say  so 
now,  if  he  should  come  to  life  for  a  little  while,  and 
have  his  photograph  taken,  and  go  up  in  a  balloon, 
and  take  a  trip  by  railroad  and  a  voyage  by  steam- 


322     THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

ship,  and  get  a  message  from  General  Grant  by  the 
cable,  and  see  a  man's  leg  cut  off  without  its  hurting 
him.  If  it  did  not  take  his  breath  away  and  lay  him 
out  as  flat  as  the  Queen  of  Sheba  was  knocked  over  by 
the  splendors  of  his  court,  he  must  have  rivalled  our 
Indians  in  the  nil  admirari  line. 

For  all  that,  it  is  a  strange  thing  to  see  what  num. 
bers  of  new  things  are  really  old.  There  are  many 
modern  contrivances  that  are  of  as  early  date  as  the 
first  man,  if  not  thousands  of  centuries  older.  Every- 
body knows  how  all  the  arrangements  of  our  tele- 
scopes and  microscopes  are  anticipated  in  the  eye, 
and  how  our  best  musical  instruments  are  surpassed 
by  the  larynx.  But  there  are  some  very  odd  things 
any  anatomist  can  tell,  showing  how  our  recent  con- 
trivances are  anticipated  in  the  human  body.  In  the 
alimentary  canal  are  certain  pointed  eminences  called 
villi,  and  certain  ridges  called  valvulce  conniventes. 
The  makers  of  heating  apparatus  have  exactly  repro- 
duced the  first  in  the  "pot"  of  their  furnaces,  and 
the  second  in  many  of  the  radiators  to  be  seen  in  our 
public  buildings.  The  object  in  the  body  and  the 
heating  apparatus  is  the  same ;  to  increase  the  extent 
of  surface.  —  We  mix  hair  with  plaster  (as  the  Egyp- 
tians mixed  straw  with  clay  to  make  bricks)  so  that 
it  shall  hold  more  firmly.  But  before  man  had  any 
artificial  dwelling  the  same  contrivance  of  mixing 
fibrous  threads  with  a  cohesive  substance  had  been 
employed  in  the  jointed  fabric  of  his  own  spinal  col- 
umn. India-rubber  is  modern,  but  the  yellow  animal 
substance  which  is  elastic  like  that,  and  serves  the 
same  purpose  in  the  animal  economy  which  that  serves 
in  our  mechanical  contrivances,  is  as  old  as  the  mam- 
malia. The  dome,  the  round  and  the  Gothic  arch. 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.     323 

the  groined  roof,  the  flying  buttress,  are  all  familiar 
to  those  who  have  studied  the  bony  frame  of  man. 
All  forms  of  the  lever  and  all  the  principal  kinds  of 
hinges  are  to  be  met  with  in  our  own  frames.  The 
valvular  arrangements  of  the  blood-vessels  are  unap- 
proached  by  any  artificial  apparatus,  and  the  arrange- 
ments for  preventing  friction  are  so  perfect  that  two 
surfaces  will  play  on  each  other  for  fourscore  years  or 
more  and  never  once  trouble  their  owner  by  catching 
or  rubbing  so  as  to  be  felt  or  heard. 

But  stranger  than  these  repetitions  are  the  coinci- 
dences one  finds  in  the  manners  and  speech  of  anti- 
quity and  our  own  time.  In  the  days  when  Flood 
Ireson  was  drawn  in  the  cart  by  the  Maenads  of  Mar- 
blehead,  that  fishing  town  had  the  name  of  nurturing 
a  young  population  not  over  fond  of  strangers.  It 
used  to  be  said  that  if  an  unknown  landsman  showed 
himself  in  the  streets,  the  boys  would  follow  after 
him,  crying,  "Kock  him!  Rock  him!  He's  got  a 
long-tailed  coat  on !  " 

Now  if  one  opens  the  Odyssey,  he  will  find  that  the 
Phaeacians,  three  thousand  years  ago,  were  wonder- 
fully like  these  youthful  Marbleheaders.  The  blue- 
eyed  Goddess  who  convoys  Ulysses,  under  the  dis- 
guise of  a  young  maiden  of  the  place,  gives  him  some 
excellent  advice.  "Hold  your  tongue,"  she  says, 
"and  don't  look  at  anybody  or  ask  any  questions,  for 
these  are  seafaring  people,  and  don't  like  to  have 
strangers  round  or  anybody  that  does  not  belong 
here." 

Who  would  have  thought  that  the  saucy  question, 
"Does  your  mother  know  you  're  out?  "  was  the  very 
same  that  Horace  addressed  to  the  bore  who  attacked 
aim  in  the  Via  Sacra  ? 


324    THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

Interpellandi  locus  hie  erat ;  Est  tibi  mater  ? 
Coguati,  queis  te  salvo  est  opus  ? 

And  think  of  the  London  cockney's  prefix  of  the 
letter  h  to  innocent  words  beginning  with  a  vowel  hav- 
ing its  prototype  in  the  speech  of  the  vulgar  Roman, 
as  may  be  seen  in  the  verses  of  Catullus : 

CAommoda  dicebat,  siquando  commoda  vellet 

Dicere,  et  Mnsidias  Arrius  insidias. 
Et  turn  mirifice  sperabat  se  esse  locutum, 

Cum  quantum  poterat,  dixerat  /ansidias  .  .  . 
Hoc  misso  in  Syriam,  requierant  omnibus  aures  .  .  . 

Cum  subito  affertur  nuncius  horribilis  ; 
lonios  fluctus,  postquam  illuc  Arrius  isset, 
Jam  non  lonios  esse,  sed  //ionios. 

—  Our  neighbors  of  Manhattan  have  an  excellent 
jest  about  our  crooked  streets  which,  if  they  were  a 
little  more  familiar  with  a  native  author  of  unques- 
tionable veracity,  they  would  strike  out  from  the  letter 
of  "Our  Boston  Correspondent,"  where  it  is  a  source 
of  perennial  hilarity.     It  is  worth  while  to  reprint, 
for  the  benefit  of  whom  it  may  concern,  a  paragraph 
from  the  authentic  history  of  the  venerable  Diedrich 
Knickerbocker : 

"  The  sage  council,  as  has  been  mentioned  in  a  pre- 
ceding chapter,  not  being  able  to  determine  upon  any 
plan  for  the  building  of  their  city,  — the  cows,  in  a 
laudable  fit  of  patriotism,  took  it  under  their  peculiar 
charge,  and  as  they  went  to  and  from  pasture,  estab- 
lished paths  through  the  bushes,  on  each  side  of  which 
the  good  folks  built  their  houses ;  which  is  one  cause 
of  the  rambling  and  picturesque  turns  and  labyrinths, 
which  distinguish  certain  streets  of  New  York  at  this 
very  day." 

—  When  I  was  a  little  boy  there  came  to  stay  with 
us  for  a  while  a  young  lady  with  a  singularly  white 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BKEAKFAST-TABLE.          325 

complexion.  Now  I  had  often  seen  the  masons  slack- 
ing lime,  and  I  thought  it  was  the  whitest  thing  I 
had  ever  looked  upon.  So  I  always  called  this  fair 
visitor  of  ours  Slacked  Lime.  I  think  she  is  still 
living  in  a  neighboring  State,  and  I  am  sure  she  has 
never  forgotten  the  fanciful  name  I  gave  her.  But 
within  ten  or  a  dozen  years  I  have  seen  this  very  same 
comparison  going  the  round  of  the  papers,  and  cred- 
ited to  a  Welsh  poet,  David  Ap  Gwyllym,  or  some- 
thing like  that,  by  name. 

—  I  turned  a  pretty  sentence  enough  in  one  of  my 
lectures  about  finding  poppies  springing  up   amidst 
the  corn ;  as  if  it  had  been  foreseen  by  nature  that 
wherever  there  should  be  hunger  that  asked  for  food, 
there  would  be  pain  that  needed  relief,  —  and  many 
years  afterwards  I  had  the  pleasure  of  finding  that 
Mistress  Piozzi  had  been  beforehand  with  me  in  sug- 
gesting the  same  moral  reflection. 

—  I  should  like  to  carry  some  of  my  friends  to  see 
a  giant  bee-hive  I  have  discovered.     Its  hum  can  be 
heard  half  a  mile,  and  the  great  white  swarm  counts 
its  tens  of  thousands.     They  pretend  to  call  it  a  plan- 
ing-mill,  but  if  it  is  not  a  bee-hive  it  is  so  like  one 
that  if  a  hundred  people  have  not  said  so  before  me, 
it  is  very  singular  that  they  have  not.     If  I  wrote 
verses  I  would  try  to  bring  it  in,  and  I  suppose  people 
would  start  up  in  a  dozen  places,  and  say,  "Oh,  that 
bee-hive  simile  is  mine,  —  and  besides,  did  not  Mr. 
Bayard  Taylor  call  the  snowflakes  'white  bees'  ?  " 

I  think  the  old  Master  had  chosen  these  trivialities 
on  purpose  to  amuse  the  Young  Astronomer  and  my- 
self, if  possible,  and  so  make  sure  of  our  keeping 
awake  while  he  went  on  reading,  as  follows: 


326    THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

—  How  the  sweet  souls  of  all  time  strike  the  same 
note,  the  same  because  it  is  in  unison  with  the  divine 
voice  that  sings  to  them !  I  read  in  the  Zend  Avesta, 
"No  earthly  man  with  a  hundred-fold  strength  speaks 
so  much  evil  as  Mithra  with  heavenly  strength  speaks 
good.  No  earthly  man  with  a  hundred-fold  strength 
does  so  much  evil  as  Mithra  with  heavenly  strength 
does  good." 

And  now  leave  Persia  and  Zoroaster,  and  come 
down  with  me  to  our  own  New  England  and  one  of 
our  old  Puritan  preachers.  It  was  in  the  dreadful 
days  of  the  Salem  Witchcraft  delusion  that  one  Jon- 
athan Singletary,  being  then  in  the  prison  at  Ipswich, 
gave  his  testimony  as  to  certain  fearful  occurrences, 
—  a  great  noise,  as  of  many  cats  climbing,  skipping, 
and  jumping,  of  throwing  about  of  furniture,  and  of 
men  walking  in  the  chambers,  with  crackling  and 
shaking  as  if  the  house  would  fall  upon  him. 

"I  was  at  present,"  he  says,  " something  affrighted ; 
yet  considering  what  I  had  lately  heard  made  out  by 
Mr.  Mitchel  at  Cambridge,  that  there  is  more  good 
in  God  than  there  is  evil  in  sin,  and  that  although 
God  is  the  greatest  good  and  sin  the  greatest  evil,  yet 
the  first  Being  of  evil  cannot  weane  the  scales  or  over- 
power the  first  Being  of  good :  so  considering  that  the 
authour  of  good  was  of  greater  power  than  the  au- 
thour  of  evil,  God  was  pleased  of  his  goodness  to  keep 
me  from  being  out  of  measure  frighted." 

I  shall  always  bless  the  memory  of  this  poor,  timid 
creature  for  saving  that  dear  remembrance  of  "  Match- 
less Mitchel."  How  many,  like  him,  have  thought 
they  were  preaching  a  new  gospel,  when  they  were 
only  reaffirming  the  principles  which  underlie  the 
Magna  Charta  of  humanity,  and  are  common  to  the 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.     327 

noblest  utterances  of  all  the  nobler  creeds!  But 
spoken  by  those  solemn  lips  to  those  stern,  simple- 
minded  hearers,  the  words  I  have  cited  seem  to  me  to 
have  a  fragrance  like  the  precious  ointment  of  spike- 
nard with  which  Mary  anointed  her  Master's  feet. 
I  can  see  the  little  bare  meeting-house,  with  the  godly 
deacons,  and  the  grave  matrons,  and  the  comely  maid- 
ens, and  the  sober  manhood  of  the  village,  with  the 
small  group  of  college  students  sitting  by  themselves 
under  the  shadow  of  the  awful  Presidential  Presence, 
all  listening  to  that  preaching,  which  was,  as  Cotton 
Mather  says,  "as  a  very  lovely  song  of  one  that  hath 
a  pleasant  voice  ";  and  as  the  holy  pastor  utters  those 
blessed  words,  which  are  not  of  any  one  church  or  age, 
but  of  all  time,  the  humble  place  of  worship  is  filled 
with  their  perfume,  as  the  house  where  Mary  knelt  was 
filled  with  the  odor  of  the  precious  ointment. 

—  The  Master  rose,  as  he  finished  reading  this  sen- 
tence, and,  walking  to  the  window,   adjusted  a  cur- 
tain which  he  seemed  to  find  a  good  deal  of  trouble  in 
getting  to  hang  just  as  he  wanted  it. 

He  came  back  to  his  arm-chair,  and  began  reading 
again : 

—  If  men  would  only  open  their  eyes  to  the  fact 
which  stares  them  in  the  face  from  history,  and  is 
made  clear  enough  by  the  slightest  glance  at  the  con- 
dition of  mankind,  that  humanity  is  of  immeasurably 
greater  importance  than  their  own  or  any  other  par. 
iicular  belief,  they  would  no  more  attempt  to  make 
private  property  of  the  grace  of  God  than  to  fence  in 
the  sunshine  for  their  own  special  use  and  enjoyment. 

We  are  all  tattoed  in  our  cradles  with  the  beliefs  of 
our  tribe;  the  record  may  seem  superficial,  but  it  is 


328    THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

indelible.  You  cannot  educate  a  man  wholly  out  of 
the  superstitious  fears  which  were  early  implanted  in 
his  imagination;  no  matter  how  utterly  his  reason 
may  reject  them,  he  will  still  feel  as  the  famous  woman 
did  about  ghosts,  Je  n'y  crois  pas,  maisje  les  crains, 
—  "I  don't  believe  in  them,  but  I  am  afraid  of  them, 
nevertheless." 

—  As  people  grow  older  they  come  at  length  to  live 
so  much  in  memory  that  they  often  think  with  a  kind 
of  pleasure  of  losing  their  dearest  blessings.     Nothing 
can  be  so  perfect  while  we  possess  it  as  it  will  seem 
when  remembered.     The  friend  we  love    best   may 
sometimes  weary  us  by  his  presence  or  vex  us  by  his 
infirmities.     How  sweet  to  think  of  him  as  he  will  be 
to  us  after  we  have  outlived  him  ten  or  a  dozen  years ! 
Then  we  can  recall  him  in  his  best  moments,  bid  him 
stay  with  us  as  long  as  we  want  his  company,  and 
send  him  away  when  we  wish  to  be  alone  again.     One 
might  alter  Shenstone's  well-known   epitaph  to  suit 
such  a  case :  — 

Heu  !  quanto  minus  est  cum  te  vivo  versari 
Quam  erit  (vel  esset)  tui  mortui  reminisse  ! 

"  Alas  !  how  much  less  the  delight  of  thy  living  presence 
Than  will  (or  would)  be  that  of  remembering  thee  when  thou 
hast  left  us!" 

I  want  to  stop  here  —  I  the  Poet  —  and  put  in  a 
few  reflections  of  my  own,  suggested  by  what  I  have 
been  giving  the  reader  from  the  Master's  Book,  and 
in  a  similar  vein. 

—  How  few  things  there   are  that  do  not  change 
their  whole  aspect  in  the  course   of  a  single  genera- 
tion!    The  landscape  around  us  is  wholly  different. 


THE   POET   AT   THE   BIIEAKFAST-TABLE.          329 

Even  the  outlines  of  the  hills  that  surround  us  are 
changed  by  the  creeping  of  the  villages  with  their 
spires  and  school-houses  up  their  sides.  The  sky  re- 
mains the  same,  and  the  ocean.  A  few  old  church- 
yards look  very  much  as  they  used  to,  except,  of 
course,  in  Boston,  where  the  gravestones  have  been 
rooted  up  and  planted  in  rows  with  walks  between 
them,  to  the  utter  disgrace  and  ruin  of  our  most  ven- 
erated cemeteries.  The  Registry  of  Deeds  and  the 
Probate  Office  show  us  the  same  old  folios,  where  we 
can  read  our  grandfather's  title  to  his  estate  (if  we 
had  a  grandfather  and  he  happened  to  own  anything) 
and  see  how  many  pots  and  kettles  there  were  in  his 
kitchen  by  the  inventory  of  his  personal  property. 

Among  living  people  none  remain  so  long  un- 
changed as  the  actors.  I  can  see  the  same  Othello 
to-day,  if  I  choose,  that  when  I  was  a  boy  I  saw  smo- 
thering Mrs.  Duff-Desdemona  with  the  pillow,  under 
the  instigations  of  Mr.  Cooper-Iago.  A  few  stone 
heavier  than  he  was  then,  no  doubt,  but  the  same 
truculent  blackamoor  that  took  by  the  thr-r-r-oat  the 
circumcised  dog  in  Aleppo,  and  told  us  about  it  in  the 
old  Boston  Theatre.  In  the  course  of  a  fortnight,  if 
I  care  to  cross  the  water,  I  can  see  Mademoiselle  De- 
jazet  in  the  same  parts  I  saw  her  in  under  Louis 
Philippe,  and  be  charmed  by  the  same  grace  and  viva- 
city which  delighted  my  grandmother  (if  she  was  in 
Paris,  and  went  to  see  her  in  the  part  of  Fanchon 
toute  seule  at  the  Theatre  des  Capucines)  in  the  days 
when  the  great  Napoleon  was  still  only  First  Consul. 

The  graveyard  and  the  stage  are  pretty  much  the 
only  places  where  you  can  expect  to  find  your  friends 
as  you  left  them,  five  and  twenty  or  fifty  years  ago.  — 
I  have  noticed,  I  may  add,  that  old  theatre-goers 


330    THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

bring  back  the  past  with  their  stories  more  vividly 
than  men  with  any  other  experiences.  There  were 
two  old  New-Yorkers  that  I  used  to  love  to  sit  talk- 
ing with  about  the  stage.  One  was  a  scholar  and  a 
writer  of  note;  a  pleasant  old  gentleman,  with  the 
fresh  cheek  of  an  octogenarian  Cupid.  The  other 
not  less  noted  in  his  way,  deep  in  local  lore,  large- 
brained,  full-blooded,  of  somewhat  perturbing  and 
tumultuous  presence.  It  was  good  to  hear  them  talk 
of  George  Frederic  Cooke,  of  Kean,  and  the  lesser 
stars  of  those  earlier  constellations.  Better  still  to 
breakfast  with  old  Samuel  Rogers,  as  some  of  my 
readers  have  done  more  than  once,  and  hear  him  an- 
swer to  the  question  who  was  the  best  actor  he  re- 
membered, "I  think,  on  the  whole,  Garrick." 

If  we  did  but  know  how  to  question  these  charming 
old  people  before  it  is  too  late!  About  ten  years, 
more  or  less,  after  the  generation  in  advance,  of  our 
own  has  all  died  off,  it  occurs  to  us  all  at  once, 
"  There !  I  can  ask  rny  old  friend  what  he  knows  of 
that  picture,  which  must  be  a  Copley ;  of  that  house 
and  its  legends  about  which  there  is  such  a  mystery. 
He  (or  she)  must  know  all  about  that."  Too  late! 
Too  late! 

Still,  now  and  then  one  saves  a  reminiscence  that 
means  a  good  deal  by  means  of  a  casual  question.  I 
asked  the  first  of  those  two  old  New-Yorkers  the  fol- 
lowing question:  "Who,  on  the  whole,  seemed  to 
you  the  most  considerable  person  you  ever  met?  " 

Now  it  must  be  remembered  that  this  was  a  man 
who  had  lived  in  a  city  that  calls  itself  the  metropolis, 
one  who  had  been  a  member  of  the  State  and  the  Na- 
tional Legislature,  who  had  come  in  contact  with  men 
of  letters  and  men  of  business,  with  politicians  and 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.    331 

members  of  all  the  professions,  during  a  long  and  dis- 
tinguished public  career.  I  paused  for  his  answer 
with  no  little  curiosity.  Would  it  be  one  of  the  great 
Ex-Presidents  whose  names  were  known  to  all  the 
world?  Would  it  be  the  silver-tongued  orator  of 
Kentucky  or  the  "God -like"  champion  of  the  Con« 
Btitution,  our  New-England  Jupiter  Capitolinus? 
Who  would  it  be? 

"Take  it  altogether,"  he  answered,  very  deliber- 
ately, "I  should  say  Colonel  Elisha  Williams  was  the 
most  notable  personage  that  I  have  met  with." 

—  Colonel  Elisha  Williams!  And  who  might  he 
be,  forsooth?  A  gentleman  of  singular  distinction, 
you  may  be  well  assured,  even  though  you  are  not 
familiar  with  his  name;  but  as  I  am  not  writing  a 
biographical  dictionary,  I  shall  leave  it  to  my  reader 
to  find  out  who  and  what  he  was. 

—  One  would  like  to  live  long  enough  to  witness 
certain  things  which  will  no  doubt  come  to  pass  by 
and  by.  I  remember  that  when  one  of  our  good  kind- 
hearted  old  millionnaires  was  growing  very  infirm,  his 
limbs  failing  him,  and  his  trunk  getting  packed  with 
the  infirmities  which  mean  that  one  is  bound  on  a  long 
journey,  he  said  very  simply  and  sweetly,  "I  don't 
care  about  living  a  great  deal  longer,  but  I  should  like 

to  live  long  enough  to  find  out  how  much  old 

(a     many-millioned    fellow-citizen)    is    worth." 

And  without  committing  myself  on  the  longevity- 
question,  I  confess  I  should  like  to  live  long  enough  to 
see  a  few  things  happen  that  are  like  to  come,  sooner 
or  later. 

I  want  to  hold  the  skull  of  Abraham  in  my  hand. 
They  will  go  through  the  cave  of  Machpelah  at 
Hebron,  I  feel  sure,  in  the  course  of  a  few  genera* 


332    THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

tions  at  the  furthest,  and  as  Dr.  Robinson  knows  of 
nothing  which  should  lead  us  to  question  the  correct- 
ness of  the  tradition  which  regards  this  as  the  place  of 
sepulture  of  Abraham  and  the  other  patriarchs,  there 
is  no  reason  why  we  may  not  find  his  mummied  body 
in  perfect  preservation,  if  he  was  embalmed  after  the 
Egyptian  fashion.  I  suppose  the  tomb  of  David  will 
be  explored  by  a  commission  in  due  time,  and  I  should 
like  to  see  the  phrenological  developments  of  that 
great  king  and  divine  singer  and  warm-blooded  man. 
If,  as  seems  probable,  the  anthropological  section  of 
society  manages  to  get  round  the  curse  that  protects 
the  bones  of  Shakespeare,  I  should  like  to  see  the 
dome  which  rounded  itself  over  his  imperial  brain.  — 
Not  that  I  am  what  is  called  a  phrenologist,  but  I  am 
curious  as  to  the  physical  developments  of  these  fel- 
low-mortals of  mine,  and  a  little  in  want  of  a  sensa- 
tion. 

I  should  like  to  live  long  enough  to  see  the  course 
of  the  Tiber  turned,  and  the  bottom  of  the  river  thor- 
oughly dredged.  I  wonder  if  they  would  find  the 
seven-branched  golden  candlestick  brought  from  Jeru- 
salem by  Titus,  and  said  to  have  been  dropped  from 
the  Milvian  bridge.  I  have  often  thought  of  going 
fishing  for  it  some  year  when  I  wanted  a  vacation,  as 
some  of  my  friends  used  to  go  to  Ireland  to  fish  for 
salmon.  There  was  an  attempt  of  that  kind,  I  think, 
a  few  years  ago.  We  all  know  how  it  looks  well 
enough,  from  the  figure  of  it  on  the  Arch  of  Titus, 
but  I  should  like  to  "heft"  it  in  my  own  hand,  and 
carry  it  home  and  shine  it  up  (excuse  my  colloquial- 
isms), and  sit  down  and  look  at  it,  and  think  and 
think  and  think  until  the  Temple  of  Solomon  built  up 
its  walls  of  hewn  stone  and  its  roofs  of  cedar  around 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.    333 

me  as  noiselessly  as  when  it  rose,  and  "there  was 
neither  hammer  nor  axe  nor  any  tool  of  iron  heard  in 
the  house  while  it  was  in  building." 

All  this,  you  will  remember,  Beloved,  is  a  digres- 
sion on  my  own  account,  and  I  return  to  the  old 
Master  whom  I  left  smiling  at  his  own  alteration  of 
Shenstone's  celebrated  inscription.  He  now  begins 
reading  again : 

—  I  want  it  to  be  understood  that  I  consider  that  a 
certain  number  of  persons  are  at  liberty  to  dislike  me 
peremptorily,  without  showing  cause,  and  that  they 
give  no  offence  whatever  in  so  doing. 

If  I  did  not  cheerfully  acquiesce  in  this  sentiment 
towards  myself  on  the  part  of  others,  I  should  not 
feel  at  liberty  to  indulge  my  own  aversions.  I  try  to 
cultivate  a  Christian  feeling  to  all  my  fellow-crea- 
tures, but  inasmuch  as  I  must  also  respect  truth  and 
honesty,  I  confess  to  myself  a  certain  number  of  in- 
alienable dislikes  and  prejudices,  some  of  which  may 
possibly  be  shared  by  others.  Some  of  these  are 
purely  instinctive,  for  others  I  can  assign  a  reason. 
Our  likes  and  dislikes  play  so  important  a  part  in  the 
Order  of  Things  that  it  is  well  to  see  on  what  they 
are  founded. 

There  are  persons  I  meet  occasionally  who  are  too 
intelligent  by  half  for  my  liking.  They  know  my 
thoughts  beforehand,  and  tell  me  what  I  was  going  to 
say.  Of  course  they  are  masters  of  all  my  knowledge, 
and  a  good  deal  besides;  have  read  all  the  books  I 
have  read,  and  in  later  editions ;  have  had  all  the  ex- 
periences I  have  been  through,  and  more  too.  In  my 
private  opinion  every  mother's  son  of  them  will  lie  at 
any  time  rather  than  confess  ignorance. 

—  I  have  a  kind  of  dread,  rather  than  hatred,  of 


334    THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

persons  with  a  large  excess  of  vitality ;  great  feeders, 
great  laughers,  great  story-tellers,  who  come  sweeping 
over  their  company  with  a  huge  tidal  wave  of  animal 
spirits  and  boisterous  merriment.  I  have  pretty  good 
spirits  myself,  and  enjoy  a  little  mild  pleasantry,  but 
I  am  oppressed  and  extinguished  by  these  great  lusty, 
noisy  creatures,  and  feel  as  if  I  were  a  mute  at  a 
funeral  when  they  get  into  full  blast. 

—  I  cannot  get  along  much  better  with  those  droop- 
ing, languid  people,  whose  vitality  falls  short  as  much 
as  that  of  the  others  is  in  excess.     I  have  not  life 
enough  for  two;   I  wish  I  had.     It  is  not  very  en- 
livening to  meet  a  fellow-creature  whose  expression 
and  accents  say,  "You  are  the  hair  that  breaks  the 
camel's  back  of  my  endurance,  you  are  the  last  drop 
that  makes  my  cup  of  woe  run  over";  persons  whose 
heads  drop  on  one  side  like  those  of  toothless  infants, 
whose  voices  recall  the  tones  in  which  our  old  snuf- 
fling choir  used  to  wail  out  the  verses  of 

"  Life  is  the  time  to  serve  the  Lord." 

—  There  is  another  style  which  does  not  captivate 
me.     I  recognize  an  attempt  at  the  grand  manner 
now  and  then,  in  persons  who  are  well  enough  in  their 
way,  but  of  no  particular  importance,  socially  or  oth- 
erwise.    Some  family  tradition  of  wealth  or  distinc- 
tion is  apt  to  be  at  the  bottom  of  it,  and  it  survives 
all  the  advantages  that  used  to  set  it  off.     I  like  fam- 
ily pride  as  well  as  my  neighbors,  and  respect  the 
high-born  fellow-citizen  whose  progenitors  have  not 
worked  in  their  shirt-sleeves  for  the  last  two  genera- 
tions full  as  much  as  I  ought  to.     But  grand-pere 
oblige;  a  person  with  a  known  grandfather  is  too  dis- 
tinguished to  find  it  necessary  to  put  on  airs.     The 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.     335 

few  Royal  Princes  I  have  happened  to  know  were  very 
easy  people  to  get  along  with,  and  had  not  half  the 
social  knee-action  I  have  often  seen  in  the  collapsed 
dowagers  who  lifted  their  eyebrows  at  me  in  my  ear- 
lier years. 

—  My  heart  does  not  warm  as  it  should  do  towards 
the  persons,  not  intimates,  who  are  always  too  glad  to 
see  me  when  we  meet  by  accident,  and  discover  all  at 
once  that  they  have  a  vast  deal  to  unbosom  themselves 
of  to  me. 

—  There  is  one  blameless  person  whom  I  cannot 
love  and  have  no  excuse  for  hating.     It  is  the  innocent 
fellow-creature,  otherwise  inoffensive  to  me,  whom  I 
find  I  have  involuntarily  joined  on  turning  a  corner. 
I  suppose  the  Mississippi,  which  was  flowing  quietly 
along,  minding  its  own  business,  hates  the  Missouri 
for  coming  into  it  all  at  once  with  its  muddy  stream. 
I  suppose  the  Missouri  in  like  manner  hates  the  Mis- 
sissippi for  diluting  with  its  limpid,  but  insipid  cur- 
rent the  rich  reminiscences  of  the  varied  soils  through 
which  its  own  stream  has  wandered.     I  will  not  com- 
pare myself  to  the  clear  or  the  turbid  current,  but  I 
will  own  that  my  heart  sinks  when  I  find  all  of  a  sud- 
den I  am  in  for  a  corner  confluence,  and  I  cease  lov- 
ing my  neighbor  as  myself  until  I  can  get  away  from 
him. 

—  These  antipathies  are  at  least  weaknesses ;  they 
may  be  sins  in  the  eye  of  the  Recording  Angel.    I  often 
reproach  myself  with  my  wrong-doings.     I  should  like 
sometimes  to  thank  Heaven  for  saving  me  from  some 
kinds  of  transgression,  and  even  for  granting  me  some 
qualities  that  if  I  dared  I  should  be  disposed  to  call 
virtues.     I  should  do  so,  I  suppose,  if  I  did  not  re- 
member the  story  of  the  Pharisee.     That  ought  not  to 


336    THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

hinder  me.  The  parable  was  told  to  illustrate  a  single 
virtue,  humility,  and  the  most  unwarranted  inferences 
have  been  drawn  from  it  as  to  the  whole  character  of 
the  two  parties.  It  seems  not  at  all  unlikely,  but 
rather  probable,  that  the  Pharisee  was  a  fairer  dealer, 
a  better  husband,  and  a  more  charitable  person  than 
the  Publican,  whose  name  has  come  down  to  us  "linked 
with  one  virtue,"  but  who  may  have  been  guilty,  for 
aught  that  appears  to  the  contrary,  of  "a  thousand 
crimes."  Eemember  how  we  limit  the  application  of 
other  parables.  The  lord,  it  will  be  recollected,  com- 
mended the  unjust  steward  because  he  had  done 
wisely.  His  shrewdness  was  held  up  as  an  example, 
but  after  all  he  was  a  miserable  swindler,  and  de- 
served the  state-prison  as  much  as  many  of  our  finan- 
cial operators.  The  parable  of  the  Pharisee  and  the 
Publican  is  a  perpetual  warning  against  spiritual 
pride.  But  it  must  not  frighten  any  one  of  us  out  of 
being  thankful  that  he  is  not,  like  this  or  that  neigh- 
bor, under  bondage  to  strong  drink  or  opium,  that  he 
is  not  an  Erie-Railroad  Manager,  and  that  his  head 
rests  in  virtuous  calm  on  his  own  pillow.  If  he  prays 
in  the  morning  to  be  kept  out  of  temptation  as  well 
as  for  his  daily  bread,  shall  he  not  return  thanks  at 
night  that  he  has  not  fallen  into  sin  as  well  as  that  his 
stomach  has  been  filled?  I  do  not  think  the  poor 
Pharisee  has  ever  had  fair  play,  and  I  am  afraid  a 
good  many  people  sin  with  the  comforting,  half -latent 
intention  of  smiting  their  breasts  afterwards  and  re- 
peating the  prayer  of  the  Publican. 

(Sensation,} 

This  little  movement  which  I  have  thus  indicated 
seemed  to  give  the  Master  new  confidence  in  his  audi- 
ence. He  turned  over  several  pages  until  he  came  to 


THE  POET  AT  THE   BREAKFAST-TABLE.          337 

a  part  of  the  interleaved  volume  where  we  could  all 
see  he  had  written  in  a  passage  of  new  matter  in  Ted 
ink  as  of  special  interest. 

—  I  told  you,  he  said,  in  Latin,  and  I  repeat  it  in 
English,  that  I  have  freed  my  soul  in  these  pages,  —  I 
have  spoken  my  mind.  I  have  read  you  a  few  ex* 
tracts,  most  of  them  of  rather  slight  texture,  and 
some  of  them,  you  perhaps  thought,  whimsical.  But 
I  meant,  if  I  thought  you  were  in  the  right  mood  for 
listening  to  it,  to  read  you  some  paragraphs  which 
give  in  small  compass  the  pith,  the  marrow,  of  all  that 
my  experience  has  taught  me.  Life  is  a  fatal  com- 
plaint, and  an  eminently  contagious  one.  I  took  it 
early,  as  we  all  do,  and  have  treated  it  all  along  with 
the  best  palliatives  I  could  get  hold  of,  inasmuch  as 
I  could  find  no  radical  cure  for  its  evils,  and  have 
so  far  managed  to  keep  pretty  comfortable  under  it. 

It  is  a  great  thing  for  a  man  to  put  the  whole 
meaning  of  his  life  into  a  few  paragraphs,  if  he  does 
it  so  that  others  can  make  anything  out  of  it.  If  he 
conveys  his  wisdom  after  the  fashion  of  the  old  alche- 
mists, he  may  as  well  let  it  alone.  He  must  talk  in 
very  plain  words,  and  that  is  what  I  have  done.  You 
want  to  know  what  a  certain  number  of  scores  of  years 
have  taught  me  that  I  think  best  worth  telling.  If  I 
had  half  a  dozen  square  inches  of  paper,  and  one  pen- 
ful  of  ink,  and  five  minutes  to  use  them  in  for  the  in- 
struction of  those  who  come  after  me,  what  should  I 
put  down  in  writing?  That  is  the  question. 

Perhaps  I  should  be  wiser  if  I  refused  to  attempt 
any  such  brief  statement  of  the  most  valuable  lesson 
that  life  has  taught  me.  I  am  by  no  means  sure  that 
I  had  not  better  draw  my  pen  through  the  page  that 
holds  the  quintessence  of  my  vital  experiences,  and 


338    THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

leave  those  who  wish  to  know  what  it  is  to  distil  to 
themselves  from  my  many  printed  pages.  But  I  have 
excited  your  curiosity,  and  I  see  that  you  are  impa- 
tient to  hear  what  the  wisdom,  or  the  folly,  it  may  be, 
of  a  life  shows  for,  when  it  is  crowded  into  a  few  lines 
as  the  fragrance  of  a  gardenful  of  roses  is  concen* 
trated  in  a  few  drops  of  perfume. 

—  By  this  time  I  confess  I  was  myself  a  little  ex. 
cited.      What  was  he  going  to  tell  us  ?     The  Young 
Astronomer  looked  upon  him  with  an  eye  as  clear  and 
steady  and  brilliant  as  the  evening  star,  but  I  could 
see  that  he  too  was  a  little  nervous,  wondering  what 
would  come  next. 

The  old  Master  adjusted  his  large  round  spectacles, 
and  began : 

—  It  has  cost  me  fif ty  years  to  find  my  place  in  the 
Order  of  Things.     I  had  explored  all  the  sciences ;  I 
had  studied  the  literature  of  all  ages;  I  had  travelled 
in  many  lands ;  I  had  learned  how  to  follow  the  work- 
ing of  thought  in  men  and  of  sentiment  and  instinct 
in  women.     I  had  examined  for  myself  all  the  reli- 
gions that  could  make  out  any  claim  for  themselves. 
I  had  fasted  and  prayed  with  the  monks  of  a  lonely 
convent ;  I  had  mingled  with  the  crowds  that  shouted 
glory  at  camp-meetings ;  I  had  listened  to  the  threats 
of  Calvinists  and  the  promises  of  Universalists ;  I  had 
been  a  devout  attendant  on  a  Jewish  Synagogue;  I 
was  in  correspondence  with  an  intelligent  Buddhist; 
and  I  met  frequently  with  the  inner  circle  of  Ration- 
alists, who  believed  in  the  persistence  of  Force,  and 
the  identity  of  alimentary  substances  with  virtue,  and 
were  reconstructing  the  universe  on  this  basis,  with 
absolute  exclusion  of  all  Supernumeraries.     In  these 
pursuits  I  had  passed  the  larger  part  of  my  half-cen- 


THE  POET  AT  THE   BREAKFAST-TABLE.          339 

tury  of  existence,  as  yet  with  little  satisfaction.  It 
was  on  the  morning  of  my  fiftieth  birthday  that  the 
solution  of  the  great  problem  I  had  sought  so  long 
came  to  me  as  a  simple  formula,  with  a  few  grand  but 
obvious  inferences.  I  will  repeat  the  substance  of  this 
final  intuition : 

The  one  central  fact  in  the  Order  of  Things  which 
solves  all  questions  is  — 

At  this  moment  we  were  interrupted  by  a  knock  at 
the  Master's  door.  It  was  most  inopportune,  for  he 
was  on  the  point  of  the  great  disclosure,  but  common 
politeness  compelled  him  to  answer  it,  and  as  the 
step  which  we  had  heard  was  that  of  one  of  the  softer- 
footed  sex,  he  chose  to  rise  from  his  chair  and  admit 
his  visitor. 

.This  visitor  was  our  Landlady.  She  was  dressed 
with  more  than  usual  nicety,  and  her  countenance 
showed  clearly  that  she  came  charged  with  an  impor- 
tant communication. 

—  I  did  n't  know  there  was  company  with  you,  — 
said  the  Landlady,  — but  it 's  jest  as  well.  I  've  got 
something  to  tell  my  boarders  that  I  don't  want  to  tell 
them,  and  if  I  must  do  it,  I  may  as  well  tell  you  all  at 
once  as  one  to  a  time.  I  'm  agoing  to  give  up  keeping 
boarders  at  the  end  of  this  year,  —  I  mean  come  the 
end  of  December. 

She  took  out  a  white  handkerchief,  at  hand  in  ex- 
pectation  of  what  was  to  happen,  and  pressed  it  to 
her  eyes.  There  was  an  interval  of  silence.  The 
Master  closed  his  book  and  laid  it  on  the  table.  The 
Young  Astronomer  did  not  look  as  much  surprised 
as  I  should  have  expected.  I  was  completely  taken 
aback,  —  I  had  not  thought  of  such  a  sudden  breaking 
up  of  our  little  circle. 


340    THE  POET  AT  THE  BKEAKFAST-TABLE. 

When  the  Landlady  had  recovered  her  composure, 
she  began  again : 

The  Lady  that 's  been  so  long  with  me  is  going  to 
a  house  of  her  own,  —  one  she  has  bought  back  again, 
for  it  used  to  belong  to  her  folks.  It 's  a  beautiful 
house,  and  the  sun  shines  in  at  the  front  windows  all 
day  long.  She  's  going  to  be  wealthy  again,  but  it 
doos  n't  make  any  difference  in  her  ways.  I ' ve  had 
boarders  complain  when  I  was  doing  as  well  as  I 
knowed  how  for  them,  but  I  never  heerd  a  word  from 
her  that  was  n't  as  pleasant  as  if  she  'd  been  talking 
to  the  Governor's  lady.  I  've  knowed  what  it  was  to 
have  women-boarders  that  find  fault,  — there  's  some 
of  'em  would  quarrel  with  me  and  everybody  at  my 
table ;  they  would  quarrel  with  the  Angel  Gabriel  if 
he  lived  in  the  house  with  'em,  and  scold  at  him  and 
tell  him  he  was  always  dropping  his  feathers  round, 
if  they  could  n't  find  anything  else  to  bring  up  against 
him. 

Two  other  boarders  of  mine  has  given  me  notice 
that  they  was  expecting  to  leave  come  the  first  of  Jan- 
uary. I  could  fill  up  their  places  easy  enough,  for 
ever  since  that  first  book  was  wrote  that  called  peo- 
ple's attention  to  my  boarding-house,  I  've  had  more 
wanting  to  come  than  I  wanted  to  keep. 

But  I  'm  getting  along  in  life,  and  I  ain't  quite  so 
rugged  as  I  used  to  be.  My  daughter  is  well  settled 
and  my  son  is  making  his  own  living.  I  've  done  a 
good  deal  of  hard  work  in  my  time,  and  I  feel  as  if  I 
had  a  right  to  a  little  rest.  There  's  nobody  knows 
what  a  woman  that  has  the  charge  of  a  family  goes 
through,  but  God  Almighty  that  made  her.  I  've 
done  my  best  for  them  that  I  loved,  and  for  them  that 
was  under  my  roof.  My  husband  and  my  children 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.    341 

was  well  cared  for  when  they  lived,  and  he  and  them 
little  ones  that  I  buried  has  white  marble  head-stones 
and  foot-stones,  and  an  iron  fence  round  the  lot,  and 
a  place  left  for  me  betwixt  him  and  the  .  .  . 

Some  has  always  been  good  to  me,  —  some  has 
made  it  a  little  of  a  strain  to  me  to  get  along.  When 
a  woman's  back  aches  with  overworking  herself  to 
keep  her  house  in  shape,  and  a  dozen  mouths  are 
opening  at  her  three  times  a  day,  like  them  little 
young  birds  that  split  their  heads  open  so  you  can 
a'most  see  into  their  empty  stomachs,  and  one  wants 
this  and  another  wants  that,  and  provisions  is  dear  and 
rent  is  high,  and  nobody  to  look  to,  —  then  a  sharp 
word  cuts,  I  tell  you,  and  a  hard  look  goes  right  to 
your  heart.  I  've  seen  a  boarder  make  a  face  at  what 
I  set  before  him,  when  I  had  tried  to  suit  him  jest  as 
well  as  I  knew  how,  and  I  haven't  cared  to  eat  a 
thing  myself  all  the  rest  of  that  day,  and  I  've  laid 
awake  without  a  wink  of  sleep  all  night.  And  then 
when  you  come  down  the  next  morning  all  the  board- 
ers stare  at  you  and  wonder  what  makes  you  so  low- 
spirited,  and  why  you  don't  look  as  happy  and  talk 
as  cheerful  as  one  of  them  rich  ladies  that  has  dinner- 
parties, where  they  've  nothing  to  do  but  give  a  few 
orders,  and  somebody  comes  and  cooks  their  dinner, 
and  somebody  else  comes  and  puts  flowers  on  the 
table,  and  a  lot  of  men  dressed  up  like  ministers  come 
and  wait  on  everybody,  as  attentive  as  undertakers  at 
a  funeral. 

And  that  reminds  me  to  tell  you  that  I  'm  agoing  to 
live  with  my  daughter.  Her  husband  's  a  very  nice 
man,  and  when  he  is  n't  following  a  corpse,  he  's  as 
good  company  as  if  he  was  a  member  of  the  city  coun- 
cil. My  son,  he  's  agoing  into  business  with  the  old 


342    THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

Doctor  he  studied  with,  and  he  's  agoing  to  board 
with  me  at  my  daughter's  for  a  while,  —  I  suppose 
he  '11  be  getting  a  wife  before  long.  [This  with  a 
pointed  look  at  our  young  friend,  the  Astronomer.] 

It  is  n't  but  a  little  while  longer  that  we  are  going 
to  be  together,  and  I  want  to  say  to  you  gentlemen, 
as  I  mean  to  say  to  the  others  and  as  I  have  said  to 
our  two  ladies,  that  I  feel  more  obligated  to  you  for 
the  way  you  've  treated  me  than  I  know  very  well  how 
to  put  into  words.  Boarders  sometimes  expect  too 
much  of  the  ladies  that  provides  for  them.  Some 
days  the  meals  are  better  than  other  days;  it  can't 
help  being  so.  Sometimes  the  provision-market  is  n't 
well  supplied,  sometimes  the  fire  in  the  cooking-stove 
doesn't  burn  so  well  as  it  does  other  days;  sometimes 
the  cook  is  n't  so  lucky  as  she  might  be.  And  there 
is  boarders  who  is  always  laying  in  wait  for  the  days 
when  the  meals  is  not  quite  so  good  as  they  commonly 
be,  to  pick  a  quarrel  with  the  one  that  is  trying  to 
serve  them  so  as  that  they  shall  be  satisfied.  But 
you  've  all  been  good  and  kind  to  me.  I  suppose  I  'm 
not  quite  so  spry  and  quick-sighted  as  I  was  a  dozen 
years  ago,  when  my  boarder  wrote  that  first  book  so 
many  have  asked  me  about.  But  now  I  'm  going  to 
stop  taking  boarders.  I  don't  believe  you  '11  think 
much  about  what  I  did  n't  do,  —  because  I  could  n't, 
—  but  remember  that  at  any  rate  I  tried  honestly  to 
serve  you.  I  hope  God  will  bless  all  that  set  at  my 
table,  old  and  young,  rich  and  poor,  merried  and 
single,  and  single  that  hopes  soon  to  be  merried.  My 
husband  that 's  dead  and  gone  always  believed  that 
we  all  get  to  heaven  sooner  or  later,  —  and  sence  I  've 
grown  older  and  buried  so  many  that  I  've  loved  I  've 
come  to  feel  that  perhaps  I  should  meet  all  of  them 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.     343 

that  I ' ve  known  here  —  or  at  least  as  many  of  'em  as 
I  wanted  to  —  in  a  better  world.  And  though  I  don't 
calculate  there  is  any  boarding-houses  in  heaven,  I 
hope  I  shall  some  time  or  other  meet  them  that  has  set 
round  my  table  one  year  after  another,  all  together, 
where  there  is  no  fault-finding  with  the  food  and  no 
occasion  for  it,  —  and  if  I  do  meet  them  and  you  there 
—  or  anywhere,  —  if  there  is  anything  I  can  do  for 
you  .  .  . 

.  .  .  Poor  dear  soul!  Her  ideas  had  got  a  little 
mixed,  and  her  heart  was  overflowing,  and  the  white 
handkerchief  closed  the  scene  with  its  timely  and 
greatly  needed  service. 

—  What  a  pity,    I  have  often  thought,  that  she 
came  in  just  at  that  precise  moment!     For  the  old 
Master  was  on  the  point  of  telling  us,  and  through 
one  of  us  the  reading  world, —  I  mean  that  fraction  of 
it  which  has  reached  this  point  of  the  record,  —  at 
any  rate,   of  telling  you,  Beloved,  through  my  pen, 
his  solution  of  a  great  problem  we  all  have  to  deal 
with.     We  were  some  weeks  longer  together,  but  he 
never  offered  to  continue  his  reading.     At  length  I 
ventured  to  give  him  a  hint  that  our  young  friend  and 
myself  would  both  of   us  be  greatly  gratified  if  he 
would  begin  reading  from  his  unpublished  page  where 
he  had  left  off. 

—  No,    sir,  —  he   said,  —  better  not,   better    not. 
That  which  means  so  much  to  me,  the  writer,  might 
be  a  disappointment,  or  at  least  a  puzzle,  to  you,  the 
listener.     Besides,  if  you  '11  take  my  printed  book  and 
be  at  the  trouble  of  thinking  over  what  it  says,  and 
put  that  with  what  you  've  heard  me  say,  and  then 
make  those  comments  and  reflections  which  will  be 
suggested  to  a  mind  in  so  many  respects  like  mine  as 


344    THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

is  your  own,  —  excuse  my  good  opinion  of  myself,  — « 
(It  is  a  high  compliment  to  me,  I  replied)  you  wiD 
perhaps  find  you  have  the  elements  of  the  formula 
and  its  consequences  which  I  was  about  to  read  you. 
It 's  quite  as  well  to  crack  your  own  filberts  as  to  bor- 
row the  use  of  other  people's  teeth.  I  think  we  will 
wait  awhile  before  we  pour  out  the  Elixir  Vitce. 

—  To  tell  the  honest  truth,  I  suspect  the  Master 
has  found  out  that  his  formula  does  not  hold  water 
quite  so  perfectly  as  he  was  thinking,  so  long  as  he 
kept  it  to  himself,  and  never  thought  of  imparting  it 
to  anybody  else.  The  very  minute  a  thought  is 
threatened  with  publicity  it  seems  to  shrink  towards 
mediocrity,  as  I  have  noticed  that  a  great  pumpkin, 
the  wonder  of  a  village,  seemed  to  lose  at  least  a  third 
of  its  dimensions  between  the  field  where  it  grew  and 
the  cattle-show  fair-table,  where  it  took  its  place  with 
other  enormous  pumpkins  from  other  wondering  vil- 
lages. But  however  that  may  be,  I  shall  always  re- 
gret that  I  had  not  the  opportunity  of  judging  for 
myself  how  completely  the  Master's  formula,  which, 
for  him,  at  least,  seemed  to  have  solved  the  great 
problem,  would  have  accomplished  that  desirable  end 
for  me. 

The  Landlady's  announcement  of  her  intention  to 
give  up  keeping  boarders  was  heard  with  regret  by  all 
who  met  around  her  table.  The  Member  of  the 
Haouse  inquired  of  me  whether  I  could  tell  him  if  the 
Lamb  Tahvern  was  kept  well  abaout  these  times.  He 
knew  that  members  from  his  place  used  to  stop  there, 
but  he  had  n't  heerd  much  abaout  it  of  late  years.  — 
I  had  to  inform  him  that  that  fold  of  rural  inno- 
cence had  long  ceased  offering  its  hospitalities  to  the 
legislative  flock.  He  found  refuge  at  last,  I  have 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BKEAKFAST-TABLE.     345 

learned,  in  a  great  public  house  in  the  northern  sec- 
tion of  the  city,  where,  as  he  said,  the  folks  all  went 
up  stairs  in  a  rat-trap,  and  the  last  I  heard  of  him 
was  looking  out  of  his  somewhat  elevated  attic-window 
in  a  northwesterly  direction  in  hopes  that  he  might 
perhaps  get  a  sight  of  the  Grand  Monadnock,  a 
mountain  in  New  Hampshire  which  I  have  myself 
seen  from  the  top  of  Bunker  Hill  Monument. 

The  Member  of  the  Haouse  seems  to  have  been 
more  in  a  hurry  to  find  a  new  resting-place  than  the 
other  boarders.  By  the  first  of  January,  however, 
our  whole  company  was  scattered,  never  to  meet  again 
around  the  board  where  we  had  been  so  long  together. 

The  Lady  moved  to  the  house  where  she  had  passed 
many  of  her  prosperous  years.  It  had  been  occupied 
by  a  rich  family  who  had  taken  it  nearly  as  it  stood, 
and  as  the  pictures  had  been  dusted  regularly,  and  the 
books  had  never  been  handled,  she  found  everything 
in  many  respects  as  she  had  left  it,  and  in  some  points 
improved,  for  the  rich  people  did  not  know  what  else 
to  do,  and  so  they  spent  money  without  stint  on  their 
house  and  its  adornments,  by  all  of  which  she  could  not 
help  profiting.  I  do  not  choose  to  give  the  street  and 
number  of  the  house  where  she  lives,  but  a  great  many 
poor  people  know  very  well  where  it  is,  and  as  a  mat- 
ter of  course  the  rich  ones  roll  up  to  her  door  in  their 
carriages  by  the  dozen  every  fine  Monday  while  any- 
body is  in  town. 

It  is  whispered  that  our  two  young  folks  are  to  be 
married  before  another  season,  and  that  the  Lady  has 
asked  them  to  come  and  stay  with  her  for  a  while. 
Our  Scheherezade  is  to  write  no  more  stories.  It  is 
astonishing  to  see  what  a  change  for  the  better  in  her 
aspect  a  few  weeks  of  brain-rest  and  heart's  ease  have 


346    THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

wrought  in  her.  I  doubt  very  much  whether  she  ever 
returns  to  literary  labor.  The  work  itself  was  almost 
heart-breaking,  but  the  effect  upon  her  of  the  sneers 
and  cynical  insolences  of  the  literary  rough  who  came 
at  her  in  mask  and  brass  knuckles  was  to  give  her 
what  I  fear  will  be  a  lifelong  disgust  against  any  writ- 
ing for  the  public,  especially  in  any  of  the  periodi» 
cals.  I  am  not  sorry  that  she  should  stop  writing,  but 
I  am  sorry  that  she  should  have  been  silenced  in  such 
a  rude  way.  I  doubt,  too,  whether  the  Young  Astron- 
omer will  pass  the  rest  of  his  life  in  hunting  for  com- 
ets and  planets.  I  think  he  has  found  an  attraction 
that  will  call  him  down  from  the  celestial  luminaries  to 
a  light  not  less  pure  and  far  less  remote.  And  I  am 
inclined  to  believe  that  the  best  answer  to  many  of 
those  questions  which  have  haunted  him  and  found 
expression  in  his  verse  will  be  reached  by  a  very  dif- 
ferent channel  from  that  of  lonely  contemplation,  — 
the  duties,  the  cares,  the  responsible  realities  of  a 
life  drawn  out  of  itself  by  the  power  of  newly  awak- 
ened instincts  and  affections.  The  double  star  was 
prophetic,  —  I  thought  it  would  be. 

The  Register  of  Deeds  is  understood  to  have  been 
very  handsomely  treated  by  the  boarder  who  owes  her 
good  fortune  to  his  sagacity  and  activity.  He  has 
engaged  apartments  at  a  very  genteel  boarding-house 
not  far  from  the  one  where  we  have  all  been  living. 
The  Salesman  found  it  a  simple  matter  to  transfer 
himself  to  an  establishment  over  the  way ;  he  had  very 
little  to  move,  and  required  very  small  accommoda- 
tions. 

The  Capitalist,  however,  seems  to  have  felt  it  im- 
possible to  move  without  ridding  himself  of  a  part 
at  least  of  his  encumbrances.  The  community  was 


THE    POET   AT   THE   BREAKFAST-TABLE.          347 

startled  by  the  announcement  that  a  citizen  who  did 
not  wish  his  name  to  be  known  had  made  a  free  gift 
of  a  large  sum  of  money  —  it  was  in  tens  of  thousands 
—  to  an  institution  of  long  standing  and  high  charac- 
ter in  the  city  of  which  he  was  a  quiet  resident.  The 
source  of  such  a  gift  could  not  long  be  kept  secret.  It 
was  our  economical,  not  to  say  parsimonious  Capi- 
talist who  had  done  this  noble  act,  and  the  poor  man 
had  to  skulk  through  back  streets  and  keep  out  of 
sight,  as  if  he  were  a  show  character  in  a  travelling 
caravan,  to  avoid  the  acknowledgments  of  his  liberal- 
ity, which  met  him  on  every  hand  and  put  him  fairly 
out  of  countenance. 

That  Boy  has  gone,  in  virtue  of  a  special  invitation, 
to  make  a  visit  of  indefinite  length  at  the  house  of  the 
father  of  the  older  boy,  whom  we  know  by  the  name 
of  Johnny.  Of  course  he  is  having  a  good  time,  for 
Johnny's  father  is  full  of  fun,  and  tells  firstrate  sto- 
ries, and  if  neither  of  the  boys  gets  his  brains  kicked 
out  by  the  pony,  or  blows  himself  up  with  gunpowder, 
or  breaks  through  the  ice  and  gets  drowned,  they  will 
have  a  fine  time  of  it  this  winter. 

The  Scarabee  could  not  bear  to  remove  his  collec- 
tions, and  the  old  Master  was  equally  unwilling  to 
disturb  his  books.  It  was  arranged,  therefore,  that 
they  should  keep  their  apartments  until  the  new  tenant 
should  come  into  the  house,  when,  if  they  were  satis- 
fied with  her  management,  they  would  continue  as  her 
boarders. 

The  last  time  I  saw  the  Scarabee  he  was  still  at 
work  on  the  meloe  question.  He  expressed  himself 
very  pleasantly  towards  all  of  us,  his  fellow-board- 
ers, and  spoke  of  the  kindness  and  consideration  with 
which  the  Landlady  had  treated  him  when  he  had 


348    THE  POET  AT  THE  BKEAKFAST-TABLE. 

been  straitened  at  times  for  want  of  means.  Espe- 
cially he  seemed  to  be  interested  in  our  young  couple 
who  were  soon  to  be  united.  His  tired  old  eyes  glis- 
tened as  he  asked  about  them,  —  could  it  be  that  their 
little  romance  recalled  some  early  vision  of  his  own? 
However  that  may  be,  he  got  up  presently  and  went 
to  a  little  box  in  which,  as  he  said,  he  kept  some 
choice  specimens.  He  brought  to  me  in  his  hand 
something  which  glittered.  It  was  an  exquisite  dia- 
mond beetle. 

—  If  you  could  get  that  to  her,  —  he  said,  —  they 
tell  me  that  ladies  sometimes  wear  them  in  their  hair. 
If  they  are  out  of  fashion,  she  can  keep  it  till  after 
they  're  married,  and  then  perhaps  after  a  while  there 
may  be  —  you  know  —  you  know  what  I  mean  —  there 
may  be  —  Zarvce,  that 's  what  I  'm  thinking  there  may 
be,  and  they  '11  like  to  look  at  it. 

—  As  he  got  out  the  word  larvae,  a  faint  sense  of 
the  ridiculous  seemed  to  take  hold  of  the  Scarabee, 
and  for  the  first  and  only  time  during  my  acquaint- 
ance with  him  a  slight  attempt  at  a  smile  showed  itself 
on  his  features.     It  was  barely  perceptible  and  gone 
almost  as  soon  as  seen,  yet  I  am  pleased  to  put  it  on 
record  that  on  one  occasion  at  least  in  his  life  the 
Scarabee  smiled. 

The  old  Master  keeps  adding  notes  and  reflections 
and  new  suggestions  to  his  interleaved  volume,  but  I 
doubt  if  he  ever  gives  them  to  the  public.  The  study 
he  has  proposed  to  himself  does  not  grow  easier  the 
longer  it  is  pursued.  The  whole  Order  of  Things  can 
hardly  be  completely  unravelled  in  any  single  person's 
lifetime,  and  I  suspect  he  will  have  to  adjourn  the 
final  stage  of  his  investigations  to  that  more  luminous 
realm  where  the  Landlady  hopes  to  rejoin  the  com- 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.          349 

pany  of  boarders  who  are  nevermore  to  meet  around 
her  cheerful  and  well-ordered  table. 

The  curtain  has  now  fallen,  and  I  show  myself  a 
moment  before  it  to  thank  my  audience  and  say  fare- 
well.  The  second  comer  is  commonly  less  welcome 
than  the  first,  and  the  third  makes  but  a  rash  venture. 
I  hope  I  have  not  wholly  disappointed  those  who  have 
been  so  kind  to  my  predecessors. 

To  you,  Beloved,  who  have  never  failed  to  cut  the 
leaves  which  hold  my  record,  who  have  never  nodded 
over  its  pages,  who  have  never  hesitated  in  your  al- 
legiance, who  have  greeted  me  with  unfailing  smiles 
and  part  from  me  with  unfeigned  regrets,  to  you  I 
look  my  last  adieu  as  I  bow  myself  out  of  sight,  trust- 
ing my  poor  efforts  to  your  always  kind  remembrance. 


EPILOGUE  TO  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  SERIES: 

AUTOCRAT  —  PROFESSOR  —  POET. 
AT  A  BOOKSTORE. 

Anno  Domini  1972. 

A  crazy  bookcase,  placed  before 

A  low-price  dealer's  open  door  ; 

Therein  arrayed  in  broken  rows 

A  ragged  crew  of  rhyme  and  prose, 

The  homeless  vagrants,  waifs  and  strays 

Whose  low  estate  this  line  betrays 

(Set  forth  the  lesser  birds  to  lime) 

YOUR  CHOICE  AMONG  THESE  BOOKS,  1  DIMS  / 

Ho  !  dealer  ;  for  its  motto's  sake 
This  scarecrow  from  the  shelf  I  take  ; 
Three  starveling  volumes  bound  in  one, 
Its  covers  warping  in  the  sun. 


850    THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

Methinks  it  hath  a  musty  smell, 

I  like  its  flavor  none  too  well, 

But  Yorick's  brain  was  far  from  dull, 

Though  Hamlet  pah  !  'd,  and  dropped  his  skull. 

Why,  here  comes  rain  !    The  sky  grows  dark,— i 

Was  that  the  roll  of  thunder  ?    Hark ! 

The  shop  affords  a  safe  retreat, 

A  chair  extends  its  welcome  seat, 

The  tradesman  has  a  civil  look 

(I  've  paid,  impromptu,  for  my  book), 

The  clouds  portend  a  sudden  shower,  — 

I  '11  read  my  purchase  for  an  hour. 


What  have  I  rescued  from  the  shelf  ? 
A  Boswell,  writing  out  himself  ! 
For  though  he  changes  dress  and  name, 
The  man  beneath  is  still  the  same, 
Laughing  or  sad,  by  fits  and  starts, 
One  actor  in  a  dozen  parts, 
And  whatsoe'er  the  mask  may  be, 
The  voice  assures  us,  This  is  he.. 

I  say  not  this  to  cry  him  down  ; 
I  find  my  Shakespeare  in  his  clown, 
His  rogues  the  self-same  parent  own  ; 
Nay  !  Satan  talks  in  Milton's  tone  ! 
Where'er  the  ocean  inlet  strays, 
The  salt  sea  wave  its  source  betrays, 
Where'er  the  queen  of  summer  blows, 
She  tells  the  zephyr,  "  I  'm  the  rose  !  " 

And  his  is  not  the  playwright's  page  ; 
His  table  does  not  ape  the  stage  ; 
What  matter  if  the  figures  seen 
Are  only  shadows  on  a  screen, 
He  finds  in  them  his  lurking  thought, 
And  on  their  lips  the  words  he  sought, 
Like  one  who  sits  before  the  keys 
And  plays  a  tune  himself  to  please. 


THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.    351 

And  was  he  noted  in  his  day  ? 

Read,  flattered,  honored  ?     Who  shall  say  ? 

Poor  wreck  of  time  the  wave  has  cast 

To  find  a  peaceful  shore  at  last, 

Once  glorying  in  thy  gilded  name 

And  freighted  deep  with  hopes  of  fame, 

Thy  leaf  is  moistened  with  a  tear, 

The  first  for  many  a  long,  long  year ! 

For  be  it  more  or  less  of  art 

That  veils  the  lowliest  human  heart 

Where  passion  throbs,  where  friendship  glows, 

Where  pity's  tender  tribute  flows, 

Where  love  has  lit  its  fragrant  fire, 

And  sorrow  quenched  its  vain  desire, 

For  me  the  altar  is  divine, 

Its  flame,  its  ashes,  —  all  are  mine  ! 

And  thou,  my  brother,  as  I  look 
And  see  thee  pictured  in  thy  book, 
Thy  years  on  every  page  confessed 
In  shadows  lengthening  from  the  west, 
Thy  glance  that  wanders,  as  it  sought 
Some  freshly  opening  flower  of  thought, 
Thy  hopeful  nature,  light  and  free, 
I  start  to  find  myself  in  thee  ! 


Come,  vagrant,  outcast,  wretch  forlorn 
In  leather  jerkin  stained  and  torn, 
Whose  talk  has  filled  my  idle  hour 
And  made  me  half  forget  the  shower, 
I  '11  do  at  least  as  much  for  you, 
Your  coat  I  '11  patch,  your  gilt  renew, 
Read  you,  —  perhaps,  — some  other  time. 
Not  bad,  my  bargain !     Price  one  dime  I 


INDEX. 


Ablution,  missionaries  of,  314. 
Abraham,  burial  place  of,  331. 
Accidents  of  life  confounded  with  life 

itself,  296. 
Act,  an,  to  make  the  poor  richer  by 

making  the  rich  poorer,  3. 
Actora  change  leas  than  other  people, 

329. 

Acupuncture,  instrument  for,  121,  122. 
Adam  and  Eve,  creation  of,  83. 
Addison's  disease,  67. 
Advertisement,  trap  to  obtain  for  new 

book,  302. 
Advice  to  young  men  and  women  with 

literary  aspirations,  158. 
Affinities,  elective,  129, 130. 
Age  in  the  eyes  of  youth,  14. 
Alchemy,  old  books  of,  27. 
Alexander  the  Great,  coins  of,  111. 
Allegiance  to  what  is  highest  in  one's 

own  nature,  270. 
"  Amatoors,"  the  Scarabee  has  no  fear 

of,  250. 
America,  hick  of  permanent  homes  in, 

Americans  like  cuckoos,  10 ;  the  talking 

dynasty  hard  upon,  265. 
Angelina's  verses,  how  to  treat  them, 

153. 
Angels  might  learn  from  human  beings, 

248. 
Angier,  Joseph,  poem  in  memory  of, 

115. 

Animus  tuus  oculus,  a  freshman's  Lat- 
in, 302. 
Ankle,  wonderful  effects  of  breaking  a 

bone  in,  97. 

Antagonism,  laws  of,  130. 
Anthropology.  See  Man. 
Antiquity  of  many  modern  customs, 

322. 

Apologies  for  human  nature,  20. 
Arago,  138. 

Articulated  sound,  fascination  of,  46, 47. 
Artists  need  freedom  from  disturbance, 

100 ;  their  idiosyncrasies,  102. 
Ashburoham,    Lord,   possessor    of   the 

ring  of  Thothmes  III.,  111. 
Aspect  of  things  changes  entirely  in  a 

single  generation,  328. 


Athos,  Mount,  monks  of,  106. 
Attention  long  fixed  on  a  single  object, 

strange  effects  of,  107. 
Attraction,  laws  of,  130. 
Aunt  Tabitha,  87. 
Authors   repeat  in  conversation  what 

they  have  said  in  their  books,  206 ; 

compliments  to  authors,  207  ;  fate  of 

presentation  copies  of   their   books, 

301 ;  they  should  read  friendly  and 

unfriendly  criticism,  303. 
Authorship,  rewards  of,  160. 
Average,  laws  of,  130. 
Averages,  human,  tolerable  steadiness 

of,  221  et  teq. 
Aversions,  personal,  indulgence  in,  333. 

Baby's  fingers,  51. 

Ballet  dancing,  95,  96. 

Bambino,  308. 

Bancroft,  George,  his  comment  on  Cal- 
vin, 184. 

Barnum,  P.  T.,127. 

Bee-parasites,  76. 

Beehive,  giant,  planing-mill  compared 
to,  325. 

Beliefs  in  which  we  are  trained  indeli- 
ble, 327. 

Biography,  cost  of  being  its  subject, 
163  et  sea. 

Blackstone,  314. 

Blair's  Chronology,  83. 

Boarding-house  fever,  64. 

Boarding-houses,  their  inmates,  244; 
trials  of  keeping,  341. 

Book  advertisement,  trap  to  obtain,  302. 

Book  infirmary  should  be  attached  to 
every  library,  25 ;  the  master's,  213. 

Books,  fate  of  presentation  copies  of, 
301 ;  like  leaky  boats  on  a  sea  of  wis- 
dom, 302. 

Bores  may  be  good  talkers,  301. 

Boston  Common,  313,  315 ;  Frog  pond, 
314 ;  streets,  324 ;  graveyards,  329. 

Boyle,  Robert,  his  approach  to  modern 
philosophers,  216. 

Breakfast-table  series,  Epilogue  to,  349. 

Bronze  skin,  67. 

Browne,  Simon,  the  man  without  a 
soul,  dedication  of  his  Answer  to 


354 


INDEX. 


Tindal's  "  Christianity  as  old  as  the 

Creation,"  215. 

"  Bub,"  abbreviation  of  Beelzebub,  7. 
Bunker  Hill  monument,   95,   148,  149, 

166  ;  man  of  the  monument,  151,  166. 
Bunyan, 

an 


,       ,       . 

yan,    John,    quotation   from,  276; 
ticipates  Galton  and  the  Professor, 


Caddice-worm,  211. 

Calvin,  criticised  by  Bancroft,  184. 

Candlestick,  seven-branched,  332. 

Cannibalism,  150. 

Canute,  King,  187,  267. 

Capitalist,  his  economies,  40  ;  treated  by 

Dr.  B.  Franklin,  253  ;  his  unexpected 

generosity,  346. 
Capsulae  suprarenales,  68. 
Caput  mortuum,  281. 
Carlyle,  Thomas,  265. 
Castles,  Ruskin's  aversion  to  a  country 

without,  11. 
Catullus,  his  story  of  the  cockney  Ro- 

man, 324. 

Celebrities  of  to-day  all  look  alike,  103. 
Cephalalgia,  127. 
Cerebration,  passive,  316. 
Character  affected  by  soil,  21  ;  sudden 

development  of,  306. 
Children  modified  by  the  soil  of  the  re- 

gion in  which  they  are  born,  20,  21  ; 

their  likeness  to  animals,  82. 
Chronological  History  of  New  England, 

by  Thomas  Prince,  121. 
Church-going,  its  humanizing  effect,  193. 
Citadel  of  belief,  the  fewer  its  outworks 

the  better,  319. 

City  life,  gain  to  health  from,  278. 
Civilization,    power    of     over    natural 

forces,  271. 
Clergymen,  varieties  of,  16,  17  ;  charac- 

teristics of,  125. 
Coarse-fibred  people,  275. 
Cockney,  Roman,  324. 
Coincidences  in  manners  and  speech  of 

antiquity  and  our  own  time,  323. 
Coins  of  Alexander  the  Great,  111. 
Coleridge,  Samuel,  263,  265. 
Common,  Boston,  as  a  place  for  study- 

ing the  heavens,  313  ;   tradition  re- 

garding one  of  its  paths,  315. 
Commonplace  people  sometimes  have  a 

deep  inner  life,  204,  205. 
Common  sense  and  science,  120. 
Comparative  theology  as  necessary  as 

comparative  anatomy,  149. 
Compliments,  some  advice  in  regard  to 


paying  them,  208. 
Condescens 


sion,    graciousness   mistaken 

for,  55. 

Conscience,  paralysis  of,  268. 
Conscious  life  the  aim  and  end  of  crea- 

tion, 105. 
Consciousness,    Dual.    See   Dual   con- 

sciousness. 
Contemplation,  necessary  conditions  of, 


Contradiction  may  turn  a  good  talker 
into  an  insufferable  bore,  301. 

Conversation,  commonplace  character 
of  ordinary,  246. 

Conversationalist,  discomfort  of  being 
thought  one,  44. 

Cooper,  the  actor,  329. 

Corain,  Captain,  and  his  sinking  ship. 
171. 

Country,  eye  for  possessed  by  military 
men,  105. 

Country  life,  some  dangers  of,  278. 

Cowper,  his  mental  neuralgia,  101. 

Creation,  conscious  life  its  aim  and  end. 
105. 

Creative  power  demands  freedom  from 
disturbance,  100. 

Criticism  based  on  personal  feeling,  85 ; 
needlessness  of  much  of  it,  152  ;  that 
which  falls  upon  the  critics  them- 
selves, 153 ;  private  criticism,  153  et  seq. 

Cuckoos,  resemblance  of  Americans  to, 
10. 

Customs,  modern,  antiquity  of  many, 
322. 

Cutis  senea,  67. 

Cuvier,  240. 

Daemons,  127. 

Dancing,  97. 

Darwin's  theory,  82,  83 ;  secret  of  the 
interest  in,  305. 

David,  tomb  of,  332. 

Davidson  sisters,  effect  upon  one  of 
them  of  the  singing  of  Moore's  melo- 
dies, 313. 

Deadheads  apt  to  have  lively  appetites, 
281. 

Dejazet,  Mile.,  the  actress,  329. 

Dermestes  lardarius,  93. 

Development  sudden  in  some  charac- 
ters, 306. 

Devout  disposition  and  weak  constitu- 
tion, correlation  between,  303. 

Discussion,  gain  in  freedom  of,  185  ;  dis- 
cussions, religious,  worth  and  dangers 
of,  187  et  seq. 

Disease,  a  manifestation  of  the  vital 
processes,  305. 

Distinctions,  social,  57. 

Doctor  B.  Franklin,  his  education,  38 ; 
he  is  consulted  by  the  Poet,  64 ;  his 
oifice,  65 ;  the  examination,  66 ;  treats 
the  Capitalist,  253. 

Doctors,  old  preferred  to  young,  118 ; 
young  doctors  start  with  much  pro- 
fessional but  little  practical  know- 
ledge, 123 ;  doctors  in  this  country 
have  less  culture  tfean  lawyers  and 
ministers,  126;  doctors  in  earlier 
days,  305. 

Dogmatists,  262  et  seq. 

Double  star,  73,  139,  317,  346. 

Doubt,  spiritual,  148  ;  age  of,  194. 

Drudgery  of  writing,  299. 

Dual  consciousness,  81, 206,  207, 227, 24& 

Duff,  Mrs.,  the  actress,  329. 


INDEX. 


355 


Duty  of  accepting  good  fortune  when  it 

defrauds  no  one,  293. 
Dynasty,   the    talking,   263;    hard    on 

Americans,  265. 

Education,  theological,  should  include 
pathology  and  toxicology,  304. 

Egg,  the  Creator's  private  studio,  106. 

Egyptian  obelisks,  149. 

Elective  affinities,  129, 130. 

Ellsler,  Fanny,  95. 

Elms,  19;  great  elm  on  Boston  Com- 
mon, 313. 

Encouragement  to  young  writers,  159. 

Enforced  economics,  296. 

English  sparrow,  314. 

Epidemic  of  thinking,  269. 

Epilogue  to  the  Breakfast- table  series, 
349. 

Equation,  eye  for,  105. 

Experts,  our  pride  in  the  superiority  of, 
243. 

External  conditions  valued  too  highly, 
296. 

Eye  for  an  equation,  105. 

Eye  for  country  possessed  by  military 
men,  105. 

Eyebrows,  line  between  the,  52. 

Faber,  Peter  John,  27. 

Facsimile  of  each  of  us  to  be  found 
somewhere,  36. 

Facts  as  mental  food,  174  ;  reluctance 
to  accept  those  which  throw  doubt 
upon  cherished  beliefs,  185. 

Faith  stronger  in  women  than  in  men, 
186. 

False  sentiment,  136. 

Fame,  desire  for,  160,  163  ;  penalty  of, 
161,  162. 

Fantasia,  61. 

Fascination  of  spoken  sounds,  46,  47. 

Fate  of  books  given  by  authors  to  their 
friends,  301. 

Fear,  power  of,  127  ;  fear,  superstitious, 
not  easily  banished,  328. 

Feeders  for  the  mind,  80. 

Firebugs,  political,  3. 

Fish  which  stopped  the  leak  in  Captain 
Corain's  ship,  171. 

Fliea,  house,  244  et  seq. 

Forgotten,  pleasure  of  being,  161. 

Foster,  John,  of  Brighton,  14. 

Fox,  Rev.  Jabez,  of  Woburn,  13. 

Frailties  of  the  rich,  296. 

Franklin,  Benjamin,  his  look,  6 ;  as  re- 
ferred to  by  Dr.  Johnson,  265. 

Franklin,  Dr.  B.  See  Doctor  B.  Frank- 
lin. 

Freaks  of  nature.     See  Monstrosities. 

Free  discussion,  in  scientific  questions, 
182  ;  gain  in,  185. 

Freedom  from  disturbance  demanded 
by  creative  power,  100. 

Freedom  of  thought  difficult  to  recon- 
cile with  respect  for  the  convictions 
of  others,  307. 


Frenchman,  the  eccentric,  225. 

Friends,  unexpected,  the  result  of  sym- 
pathetic disposition,  154. 

Friendship,  no  time  for  among  natural- 
ists, 249. 

Frog  pond  on  Boston  Common,  314. 

Galton,  Francis,  303. 

Gambrel-roofed  house,  the  Poet's  recol- 
lections of,  10  et  seq. ;  its  unpreten- 
tiousness,  12 ;  its  tenants,  13,  18  ;  its 
clerical  visitors,  14  et  seq. ;  its  trees, 
19;  its  garden,  20  et  seq.;  its  out- 
look, 22  ;  its  cellar,  23  ;  its  garret,  24 
et  seq. ;  the  old  books  of  the  garret, 
26 ;  its  historic  associations,  28  ;  its 
later  use,  28;  its  romances,  29;  its 
improvements,  30. 

Genius  for  religion,  128. 

Ghosts,  no  opportunities  for  in  modern 
houses,  23. 

Gibbon's  story  of  the  monks  of  Mount 
Athos,  106. 

Girls.    See  Women. 

Gods  of  the  heathen,  servants  of  to-day, 
271. 

Gold,  the  charm  and  power  of,  255  et 
seq. 

Good  manners,  worth  of,  58. 

Good  Samaritan,  306. 

Gospel  of  Saint  Petroleum,  40. 

Grace  of  God  not  private  property,  327. 

Grace  opposed  to  nature  in  the  scholas- 
tic theology,  304. 

Graciousness  mistaken  for  condescen- 
sion, 55. 

Grafted  trees,  165. 

Grand  manner,  334. 

Graveyards  change  their  outward  aspect 
less  than  other  places,  329. 

Great  elm  on  Boston  Common,  313. 

Great  organ  in  Boston  Music  Hall,  95. 

Guilt,  heritable,  doctrine  of,  268. 

Gwyllyn,  David  ap,  325. 

Gymnotus,  45. 

Halford,  Sir  Henry,  102. 

Hall,  Bishop,  prefers  nature  before 
grace  in  the  election  of  a  wife,  304. 

Hannibal,  300. 

Harris,  Thaddeus  Mason,  D.  D.,  died 
1847,  15. 

Harvard  College:  Harvard  hall,  10; 
Massachusetts  hall,  10  ;  Holden  chap- 
el, 10. 

Harvard  hall.    See  Harvard  College. 

Harvey,  William,  106. 

Herbert,  George,  110. 

Heritable  guilt,  doctrine  of,  268. 

Herschel,  his  discovery  of  Georgium 
Sidiis,  218  ;  his  telescope,  219. 

High  Church  service,  responses  in.  128. 

Holden  Chapel.    See  Harvard  College. 

Holding  the  tongue,  significance  of  in 
women,  300. 

Holmes  house,  Cambridge.  See  Gam- 
brel-roofed house. 


356 


INDEX. 


Homer,  quotation  from,  47. 
Homer,  Jonathan,  his  external 

blance  to  Voltaire,  15. 
Homes,  permanent,  lack  of  Jn  America, 

Homesick  in  Heaven,  32. 

Horace,  323. 

House-flies,  244  et  seq. 

Human  averages,  tolerable    steadiness 

of,  221  et  seq. 

Human  beings  raised  under  glass,  278. 
Human  body,  structure  of  has  suggested 

many  modern  contrivances,  322. 
Human  experiences,  similarity  of,  31. 
Human  nature,  apologies  for,  20. 
Humanity,  revival  of,  305;  virtues  of, 

306;   of  more  importance  than  any 

belief,  327. 

Humanizing  effect  of  church-going,  193. 
Hutchinson,  Mrs.  Ann,  224. 

Ideas,  transplanted,  146 ;  association  of 
by  their  accidental  cohesion  rather 
than  by  their  vital  affinities,  289. 

Idiosyncrasies  of  artists,  102. 

India-rubber,  322. 

Infirmary  for  invalid  books,  25;  the 
Master's,  213. 

Inheritance  of  the  world  belongs  to  the 
phlegmatic  people,  41. 

Instincts,  inherited,  their  development, 
166. 

Intellects,  varieties  of,  43. 

Intellectual  invalids,  17. 

Intellectual  irritation  produced  by  rub- 
bing against  other  people's  prejudices, 
6. 

Intellectual  life  of  race  gains  nothing 
from  unquestioning  minds,  270. 

Intellectual  opium-eating,  99. 

Intelligence,  general  diffusion  of,  302. 

Interrupted  literary  work,  supposed 
case  of,  8. 

Interviewing  one's  self,  1. 

Invalids,  intellectual,  17. 

Inventions,  recent,  anticipated  in  the 
human  body,  322. 

Ireson,  Flood,  323. 

Irving,  Edward,  183. 

Irving,  Washington,  quotation  from  his 
Knickerbocker's  history  regarding 
New  York  streets,  324. 

Japanese  figures  with  points  for  acu- 
puncture, 121,  122. 

Johnson,  Samuel,  his  estimate  of  scien- 
tists, 263 ;  what  he  might  say  on  re- 
ceiving a  cablegram,  264;  his  refer- 
ence to  Franklin,  265. 

Johnny,  That  Boy's  friend,  his  first  ap- 
pearance, 281;  his  family  history, 
283. 

Joke-blindness,  247. 

Justice,  human  conception  of,  270. 

Keats's  Endymion,  306. 
Kellogg,  Elijah,  15. 


Knickerbocker's  history,  quotation  from 
regarding  New  York  streets,  324. 

Knowledge,  its  specialization,  265;  its 
advance,  267 ;  pursuit  of,  difficult,  307. 

Laboring  classes,  a  suggestion  for,  299. 

Lady,  The,  her  history,  54 ;  her  friend- 
ship for  Scheherezade,  85  ;  her  letter  to 
th3  Poet,  187  et  seq. ;  her  acquaintance 
with  the  Register  of  Deeds,  196 ;  her 
growing  interest  in  him,  289 ;  this  in- 
timacy explained,  289 ;  her  good  for. 
tune,  292. 

Lamb  tavern,  344. 

Landlady,  personal  appearance,  37; 
her  family,  38 ;  her  fitness  for  matri- 
mony, 38,  39 ;  fame  of  her  house 
brought  superior  people,  48 ;  her  mis- 
take regarding  complementary  colors, 
140 ;  character  of  her  conversation, 
252 ;  probable  characteristics  of  her 
deceased  husband,  253;  her  reminis- 
cences, 283;  tells  the  story  of  The 
Lady's  good  fortune,  290  et  seq. 

Langdon,  Samuel,  28. 

Language,  management  of  in  poetry, 
98 ;  its  inadequacy  for  expression  of 
spiritual  ideas,  183;  inexactness  of, 
217. 

Latreille,  Pierre  Andre%  240. 

Lawyers  unsympathetic,  124. 

Left-handedness,  moral,  222. 

Letters,  Red  republic  of,  10. 

Levelling  process,  4,  5. 

Liability  of  misjudging  our  fellows,  255. 

Liberty  to  dislike  us  accorded  a  certain 
number  of  people,  333. 

Libraries,  book  infirmary  should  be  at- 
tached to,  25;  use  of  in  many  fine 
houses,  209;  how  they  should  grow, 
211  et  seq. 

Life,  conscious,  the  aim  and  end  of  crea- 
tion, 105. 

Life,  fulness  of  to  the  poet,  107 ;  chances 
of  better  in  cities  than  in  towns,  279 ; 
its  accidents  confounded  with  life  it- 
self, 296. 

Likes  and  dislikes,  metaphysics  of,  71 ; 
ground  of,  333  et  seq. 

Line  between  the  eyebrows,  52. 

Literary  adviser,  confidential,  much  ex- 
pected of  him,  158. 

Literary  aspirants,  difficulties  of  dealing 
with,  155  et  seq. 

Literary  police,  152. 

Literary  roughs  with  brass  knucklesv 
275,346. 

Local  influences,  how  greatly  they  affect 
the  human  organization,  277. 

Louis,  XIV.,  anecdote  of,  185. 

Love-cure  believed  in  by  women,  272. 

Lovers  as  talkers,  95. 

Machpelah,  cave  of,  331. 

Maine  produces  a  large  proportion  of 

our  natural  nobility,  276. 
Man,  study  of,  183,  184,  268 ;  it  needs  a 


INDEX. 


357 


new  terminology,  307;  natural  man, 

234. 
Man  of  letters,  52  ;  his  air  of  superiority, 

151  ;  leaves  the  boarding-house,  202. 
Man  of   the  monument.      See  Bunker 

Hill  Monument. 
Man  without  a  soul.    See  Browne,  Si- 

mon. 
Manhood,  occidental,  based  on  self-re- 

spect, 270  ;    oriental,  based  on  self- 

abasement,  ibid. 
Mantis  religiosa,  239. 
Map,  sanitary,  needed  of  every  State  in 

the  Union,  280. 
Marblehead,  people  of,  like  the  Phaea- 

cians,  323. 
Massachusetts  Hall.    See  Harvard  Col- 


lege. 
aster,  his 


Master,  his  prejudices,  6  ;  his  originality, 
41  ;  his  experiments,  174  et  seq.  ;  his 
library,  210  et  seq.  ;  his  book  infirm- 
ary, 213  ;  his  book,  221  ;  his  ambition, 
262  ;  his  physiological  observations, 
277  ;  his  reasons  for  having  written 
books,  319  et  seq.  ;  begins  to  tell  the 
story  of  his  life,  and  to  disclose  the 
central  fact  in  the  order  of  things, 
337  et  seq.  ;  is  interrupted  by  the 
Landlady,  339. 

Mastigophori,  the  whip-holders,  274. 

Matchless  Mitchel.  See  Mitchel,  Jona- 
than. 

Mathematical  ability  lacking  in  many 
strong  minds,  104. 

Mather,  Cotton,  14,  327. 

Mather,  Increase,  224. 

Medicated.novels,  26. 

Mediocrity  often  given  to  a  thought  by 
publicity,  344. 

"  Member  of  the  Haouse,"  1  ;  his  native 
place,  7. 

Memory,  curiosities  of,  219;  pleasures 
of,  328. 

Mental  ballast,  321. 

Military  men  have  an  eye  for  country, 
105. 

Milton,  John,  91,  92. 

Mind,  feeders  for  the,  80. 

Minds  with  skylights,  42;  different 
minds  move  like  the  different  pieces 
on  a  chess-board,  220  ;  non-clerical 
minds,  257. 

Ministers.    See  Clergymen  ;  Priests. 

Misers,  Visions  of  ,  255  et  seq. 

Misery  that  we  smile  at,  84. 

Misjudgment,  liability  to,  255. 

Missionaries  of  ablution,  314. 

Mississippi  River,  335. 

Missouri  River,  335. 

Mrs.  Midas  Goldenrod,  her  visits  to  the 
Lady,  55  ;  her  likes  and  dislikes,  294. 

Mitchel,  Jonathan,  326. 

Mithra,  326. 

Modern  customs,  antiquity  of  many, 
322. 

Modern  houses  afford  no  opportunities 
for  ghosts,  23. 


Monadnock,  Mount,  345. 

Monks  of  Mount  Athos,  106. 

Monstrosities  subject  to  laws,  223 ;  the 
Poet's  fondness  for,  229. 

Moon  as  seen  through  the  telescope  by 
the  boarding-house  party,  137  et  seq. 

Moon-hoax  of  1835,  138. 

Moore,  Thomas,  313. 

Moral  left-handedness,  222. 

Moral  order  of  things,  reason  for  believ- 
ing in,  221. 

Moral  reflections,  we  often  find  our  own 
anticipated  by  others,  325. 

Moral  teratology,  225. 

Morbus  Addisonii,  67. 

Morrissey,  John,  45. 

Mothers,  hardships  of,  340. 

Muscarium,  home  for  house-flies,  244 
et  seq. 

Music-pounding,  62. 

Natural  forces  well   under  control   of 

civilization,  271. 
Natural  man,  234. 
Natural  nobility,  276. 
Naturalists,  have  no  time   for  friend- 
ships, 249. 

Nature  and  grace,  304. 
Nature,  study  of,  its  difficulties,  307. 
Nebular  theory,  180. 
New    York    streets,     quotation    from 

Knickerbocker's    history    regarding, 

324. 
New  Yorkers,  two,  their  reminiscences, 

330. 

Newgate  calendar,  222, 265. 
Newton,    Sir   Isaac,  his   mathematical 

power,  105. 
Nightingale,  Florence,  her  saying  about 

music,  62. 

Nobility,  natural,  276. 
Novels,  medicated.  26;  fate  of,  112. 

Obelisks,  Egyptian,  149. 

Observatory,  visit  of  the  boarding-house 

party  to,  131  et  seq. ;  description  of, 

133  ;  solemnity  of,  134. 
Occasional  talkers,  266. 
Occidental  manhood   based  on  self-re- 
spect, 270. 

Octavia  on  hearing  Virgil's  verses,  312. 
Odyssey,  323. 
Old  people  are  monsters  to  little  ones, 

14;    worth   of   their    reminiscences, 

169. 

One,  two  and  three  story  intellects,  43. 
Opium-eating,  intellectual,  99. 
Order  of  Things,  the  Master's  specialty, 

41. 
Oriental  manhood  based  on  self-abase- 

ment,  270. 
Ornaments,  personal,  as  reminders  of 

the  New  Jerusalem,  295. 
Osgood,   David,  minister  of   Medford, 

Outworks  to  the  cite.de!  of  belief,  the 
fewer  the  better,  319. 


358 


INDEX. 


Palladium  Spagyricum,  P.  J.  Faber's, 
27. 

Parable  of  the  Pharisee  find  Publican, 
lesson  of,  335. 

Passive  cerebration,  316. 

Pathological  piety,  303. 

Pathology  as  part  of  theological  educa- 
tion, 304. 

Pearson,  Eliphalet,  13,  18. 

Pediculus  melittse,  74,  75. 

People  who  are  too  glad  to  see  us,  334. 

Peril  escaped  makes  a  great  story-teller 
of  a  common  person,  266. 

Permanent  homes,  lack  of  in  America,  11. 

Personal  aversions,  indulgence  in,  333. 

Personality  of  the  poet,  109. 

Petroleum,  Saint,  gospel  of,  40. 

Phseacians  of  three  thousand  years  ago, 
resemblance  to  Marbleheaders  of  Ire- 
son's  day,  323. 

Pharisee  and  Publican,  lesson  of  the 
parable,  335. 

Phlegmatic  people,  inheritance  of  the 
world  belongs  to  them,  41. 

Phyllum  siccif  olium,  240. 

Physiology,  laws  of  not  altered  by  re- 
publicanism, 276. 

Piety,  pathological,  303. 

Piozzi,  Madame,  186,  325. 

Pitch-pine  Yankees,  276. 

Planing-mill,  resemblance  to  a  bee-hive, 
325. 

Pleasure  of  being  forgotten,  161. 

Pleasures  of  memory,  328. 

Poem,  each  one  represents  a  great  ex- 
penditure of  vital  force,  97,  98. 

Poetry  a  luxury,  not  a  necessity,  100. 

Poets,  their  inner  nature,  11;  their 
knowledge  of  the  subjects  with  which 
they  deal,  72,  73 ;  those  who  never 
write  verses  the  best  talkers,  94; 
treated  as  privileged  persons,  99  ;  all 
real  ones  artists,  100;  concessions 
should  be  made  to  their  idiosyncra- 
sies, 101 ;  personality  of,  109  ;  fond- 
ness for  reading  their  own  composi- 
tions to  others,  202 ;  their  non-clerical 
minds,  257. 

Police,  literary,  152. 

Political  firebugs,  3. 

Pope,  quotation  from  an  epistle  of  his 
to  Addison,  111. 

Popgun,  That  Boy's,  its  first  appear- 
ance, 63;  its  last  appearance,  236;  its 
efficiency,  237. 

Poplar,  Lombardy,  19. 

Power,  creative,  demands  freedom  from 
disturbance,  100. 

Power,  feared  only  when  it  cannot  be 
mastered,  271. 

Prejudices,  their  value,  6 ;  intellectual 
irritation  produced  by  rubbing  against 
other  people's  prejudices,  6. 

Pride,  spiritual,  warning  against,  336. 

Priests  and  ministers,  125. 

Prince,  Thomas,  121. 

Private  property  cannot  include  matters 


of   universal    interest,    271 ;    private 
property  in  thought,  303. 
Publicity  often  gives  a  thought  medioc- 
rity, 344. 

Queen  of  Sheba,  322. 

Reader,  every  writer  of  individuality 
may  expect  to  have  one,  36,  37. 

Headers  who  have  no  libraries  of  their 
own,  209. 

Red  republic  of  letters,  10. 

Red  sorrel,  22. 

Register  of  deeds,  his  daily  life,  60? 
his  investigations,  168  ;  discussion  as 
to  whether  he  is  a  superfluous  person, 
170 ;  his  interest  in  the  Lady,  289 ;  the 
intimacy  explained,  289  et  seq. 

Religion,  genius  for,  128  ;  not  an  intel- 
lectual luxury,  190 ;  need  of,  193  et 
seq. ;  does  not  rid  a  man  of  his  natu- 
ral qualities,  304. 

Religious  discussions,  worth  and  dan- 
gers of,  187  et  seq. 

Reporters,  how  they  make  up  their  re- 
ports, 3. 

Republic  of  letters,  red,  10. 

Republicanism  does  not  alter  the  laws 
of  physiology,  276. 

Responses  in  High  Church  service,  128. 

Reverence,  spirit  of  should  be  cultivated 
in  young  people,  195 ;  should  begin 
with  self-respect,  270. 

Revival  of  humanity,  305. 

Rewards  of  authorship,  160. 

Rhyme  as  a  narcotic,  99. 

Rhymes,  paucity  of  the  language  in,  72, 
73. 

Rhyming  and  clever  writing,  capacity 
for,  often  mistaken  for  extraordinary 
endowment,  155. 

Rich,  frailties  of,  296. 

Right  of  reentry  released,  case  of,  293. 

Ring,  found  by  Thaddeus  M.  Harris, 
D.  D.,  15  ;  ring  of  Thothmes  III.,  111. 

Robinson,  Dr.,  332. 

Rogers,  Samuel,  330. 

Ruskiu,  his  aversion  to  a  country  with- 
out castles,  11. 

Saint  Petroleum,  gospel  of,  40. 

Salem  witchcraft,  326. 

Salesman,  60;  why  he  does  not  talk 
more,  205. 

Sanitary  map  of  every  State  in  the 
Union  needed,  280. 

Sappho,  110. 

Scarabee,  49 ;  receives  a  visit  from  the 
Master  and  the  Poet,  238  et  seq.  ;  ab- 
sorption in  his  studies,  244 ;  his  re- 
semblance to  his  beetles,  248 ;  prefers 
spiders  to  men,  250 ;  gift  to  Schehere- 
zade,  347. 

Scheherezade,  her  personal  appearance, 
52  ;  her  stories,  53 ;  her  unfriendly 
critics,  83 ;  she  looks  at  the  double- 
star,  140 ;  her  sympathy  for  the  Young 


INDEX. 


359 


Astronomer,  141;  the  lessons  in  as- 
tronomy, 234  et  seq. ;  her  conspiracy 
with  That  Boy  discovered,  236  ;  change 
in  her  manner,  297  ;  effect  of  absence 
of  mind  upon  her  stories,  300 ;  effect 
of  the  Young  Astronomer's  poem  upon 
her,  313  ;  abandons  story-writing,  346. 

Science  and  common  sense,  120;  the 
disturbing  facts  of  science,  180  et 
seq.;  change  of  feeling  regarding 
these  facts,  181 ;  humility  of  science, 
185. 

Scientific  men,  Dr.  Johnson's  estimate 
of,  263. 

Scientific  questions,  free  discussion  of, 
182. 

Scientific  wrappers,  123. 

Self-abasement  the  basis  of  Oriental 
manhood,  270. 

Self-respect  the  basis  of  reverence  and 
Occidental  manhood,  270. 

Sense  of  superiority  to  our  fellow-crea- 
tures, 273. 

Sentimentality  better  than  affectation 
of  superiority  to  human  weakness, 
136. 

Seven-branched  golden  candlestick,  332. 

Bewail,  Samuel,  14. 

Shenstone,  quotation  from,  328. 

Shirley,  James,  110. 

Siamese  twins,  223. 

Simonides,  110. 

Sin  a  function,  not  an  entity,  306,  307. 

Singers,  immediate  triumphs  of,  113. 

Singletary,  Jonathan,  quotes  Jonathan 
Mitchel,  326. 

Smiles  that  make  wrinkles  and  not 
dimples,  84. 

Smith,  Isaac,  poorhouse  parson,  16. 

Smith,  Samuel  Stanhope,  166. 

Smith,  Sydney,  6. 

Social  distinctions,  67. 

Soil,  its  effect  on  character,  21. 

Solomon,  temple  of,  332. 

Sorrel,  red,  22. 

Soul,  man  without.  See  Browne,  Si- 
mon. 

Sparrow,  English,  314. 

Specialists  like  coral  insects,  78 ;  their 
limitations,  79 ;  their  value,  82. 

Spider,  the  Scarabee's  favorite,  244. 

Spiritual  doubts,  148. 

Spiritual  pathology,  306. 

Spiritual  pride,  warning  against,  336. 

Spontaneous  generation,  experiment  in, 
175  et  seq. 

"  Squirt,"  college  boy's  term.  252. 

Star-dust,  179. 

Stars,  double,  73, 139, 317,  346. 

Stars,  nursery  legend  concerning,  307. 

Stearns,  Charles,  of  Lincoln,  14. 

Stereoscope,  deceptions  of,  219. 

Stethoscope,  wrong  end  used  by  wise- 
looking  doctor,  118. 

Story-writing  for  support,  53. 

Streets  of  Boston  and  New  York,  324. 

Superfluous  people,  170. 


Superiority  to  our  fellow-creatures,  sense 
of,  273. 

Superstitious  fears  not  easily  banished 
328. 

Sympathetic  disposition  brings  unex- 
pected friends,  154. 

Taglioni,  95. 

Talk,  its  value  in  helping  us  find  out 
ourselves,  not  other  people,  2;  it 
should  be  governed  by  the  way  hi 
which  others  will  understand  it,  4; 
conditions  of  good  talk,  45 ;  philosophy 
of,  46. 

Talkers,  the  best  are  poets  who  never 
write  verses,  94 ;  lovers  as,  95 ;  occa- 
sional talkers,  266 ;  good  talkers  apt 
to  be  bores,  301. 

Talking  dynasty,  263  et  seq. 

Taylor,  Bayard,  325. 

Taylor,  Jeremy,  his  tolerance  191. 

Teratology,  the  science  of  monstrosities, 
223  et  seq. 

That  Boy,  7  ;  his  method  of  interrupting 
a  tiresome  conversation,  63 ;  his  con- 
spiracy with  Scheherezade  discovered, 
236 ;  his  friend  Johnny,  281. 

Theatre-goers,  their  stories  more  vivid 
than  those  of  men  with  other  experi- 
ences, 330. 

Theological  education  should  include 
pathology  and  toxicology,  304. 

Theology  must  be  studied  through  an- 
thropology, 183. 

Theology,  comparative,  as  necessary  as 
comparative  anatomy,  149. 

Thinking,  the  epidemic  of,  269. 

Thinking-cell,  an  egg  the  best  form  for, 
105,  106. 

Thothmes  III.,  ring  of,  111. 

Thoughts,  how  one  is  helped  to  get  at 
one's  own,  1,  2 ;  loss  of  their  original 
form,  2;  some  kinds  like  the  blind 
fishes  hi  the  Mammoth  cave,  2 ;  some 
feed  on  others,  2 ;  mediocrity  often 
given  them  by  publicity,  344. 

Titles,  the  Poet's  passion  for,  274. 
Titus,  arch  of,  332. 
Townley,  213. 

Toxicology  as  part  of  theological  educa- 
tion, 314. 

Transplanted  ideas,  146. 
Trap  set  by  authors  to  get  booksellers* 

advertisements,  302. 
Trees,  grafted,  165. 

Elms,  19;   Great   elm   on   Boston 

Common,  313. 
Lombardy  poplars,  19. 
Triumphs,  immediate,  of  singers,  113. 

Ulysses,  323. 

Vernon,  Fortescue,  29. 

Virgil,  312. 

Virtues  of  common  humanity,  306. 

Vital  force  expended  upon  poem,  97,  98. 


360 


INDEX. 


Vitality,  334. 

Voltaire,  Jonathan  Homer's  external 
resemblance  to,  15 ;  his  chapel,  193. 

Ward,  Gen.  Artemas,  28. 

Warren,  Joseph,  28. 

Washington  elm,  19. 

Weak  constitution  and  devout  disposi- 
tion, correlation  between,  303. 

Week  in  a  French  Country-House,  161. 

Whips,  fascination  of  for  youth,  273. 

White-pine  Yankees,  276. 

Wife,  Bishop  Hall  on  election  of  a, 
304. 

Williams,  Colonel  Elisha,  331. 

Wind-clouds  and  Star-drifts,  144.  172, 
197,  230,  258,  285. 

Wine,  famous  vintages  of,  102. 

Winthrop,  John,  224. 

Winthrop,  Prof.  James,  224. 

Wisdom  leaks  into  books.  302. 

Witchcraft,  Salem,  326. 

Woman's  rights,  246. 

Women,  as  listeners,  90 ;  their  desire  to 
please,  91;  in  social  life,  94;  their 


compassion  for  suffering,  141 ;  need 
faith  more  than  men,  186;  power  of 
adapting  themselves  to  changing  stand- 
ards, 189 ;  their  belief  in  the  love-cure, 

Worcester's  dictionary  used  instead  of 
the  Bible  to  take  oath  upon,  8. 

Words,  certain  short  ones  like  Japanese 
toys,  89. 

Writers  like  lovers,  35. 

Writing,  drudgery  of,  299. 

Wyman,  Dr.  Jeffries,  178. 

Yankees,  pitch-pine  and  white-pine,  276. 

Young  Astronomer,  devotion  to  his  work, 
59 ;  his  loneliness,  141 ;  his  poem,  144, 
172,  197,  230,  258,  285;  gives  Sche- 
herezade  astronomy  lessons,  234  et 
seq. ;  changes  his  seat  at  the  table,  235 ; 
tells  Scheherezade  the  story  of  Andro- 
meda, 317. 

Young  Girl.    See  Scheherezade. 

"  Young  surgeon,  old  physician,"  119. 

Zend  A  vesta,  quotation  from,  326. 


THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  SANTA  CRUZ 


This  book  is  due  on  the  last  DATE  stamped  below. 

MAR  20 '81 


APR    3*81 

APR    61981REC'D 

APR  2  8 '82 


1982 


IVL.W   U 


100m-8,'65(F6282s8)2373 


PS1970.A1  1900 


3 1  2106  00207  1782 


